The  Sin  of 
Monsieur  Pettipon 

AND 

Other  Humor  out  Tales 


Richard  Connell 


UPOY,  OF  GALIF.  L*RARY.  LOS 


The  Sin  of 
Monsieur  Pettipon 

AND 

Other  Humorous  Tales 

BY 

Richard  Connell 


New        r   York 
George  H.  Doran  Company 


Copyright, 
By  George  H.  Doran  Company 


Copyright,  1922,  by  P.  F.  Collier  $  Son  Co. 

Copyright,  1921,  by  The  Century  Co. 

Copyright,  1920,  by  Street  and  Smith  Corporation 

Copyright,  1921,  by  The  McCall  Company 

Copyright,  1920,  1921,  1922,  By  the  Curtis  Publishing  Company 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


TO 
LOUISE  FOX  CONNELL 

My  Wife 

Who  Helped  Me  With 
These  Stories 


CM  O 


CONTENTS 

PAQH 

I  The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon  11 

II  Mr.  Pottle  and  the  South-Sea  Cannibals  SI 

III  Mr.  Pottle  and  Culture  51 

IV  Mr.  Pottle  and  the  One  Man  Dog  69 
V  Mr.  Pottle  and  Pageantry  101 

VI  The  Cage  Man  127 

VII  Where  is  the  Tropic  of  Capricorn?  145 

VIII  Mr.  Braddy's  Bottle  165 

IX  Gretna  Greenhorns  187 

X  Terrible  Epps  207 

XI  Honor  Among  Sportsmen  239 

XII  The  $25,000  Jaw  263 


I:   The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 


I:  The  Sin  of  Monsieur 
Pettipon 


7|    jfOISTENING  the  tip  of  his  immaculate  hand- 

l\/i     kerchief,  M.  Alphonse  Marie  Louis  Camille 

Pettipon  deftly  and  daintily  rubbed  an  almost 

imperceptible  speck  of  dust  from  the  mirror  in  State- 

room C  341  of  the  liner  Voltaire  of  the  Paris-New  York 

Steamship  Company,  and  a  little  sigh  of  happiness  flut- 

tered his  double  chins. 

He  set  about  his  task  of  making  up  the  berths  in  the 
stateroom  with  the  air  of  a  high  priest  performing  a 
sacerdotal  ritual.  His  big  pink  hands  gently  smoothed 
the  crinkles  from  the  linen  pillow  cases;  the  woolen 
blankets  he  arranged  in  neat,  folded  triangles  and  stood 
off  to  survey  the  effect  as  an  artist  might.  And,  indeed, 
Monsieur  Pettipon  considered  himself  an  artist. 

To  him  the  art  of  being  a  steward  was  just  as  esti- 
mable as  the  art  of  being  a  poet  ;  he  was  a  Shelley  of  the 
dustpan  ;  a  Keats  of  the  sheets.  To  him  the  making  up 
of  a  berth  in  one  of  the  cabins  he  tended  was  a  sonnet; 
an  orange  pip  or  burnt  match  on  the  floor  was  as  intol- 
erable as  a  false  quantity.  Few  poets  took  as  much 
pains  with  their  pens  as  he  did  with  his  whisk.  He 
loved  his  work  with  a  zeal  almost  fanatical. 

Lowering  himself  to  his  plump  knees,  Monsieur 
Pettipon  swept  the  floor  with  a  busy  brush,  humming 
the  while  a  little  Provence  song: 

ii 


12      The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

"My  mama's  at  Paris, 
My  papa's  at   Versailles, 
But  me,  I  am  here, 
Sleeping  in  the  straw. 
CHORUS  : 

"Oo  la  la, 
Oo  la  la, 
Oo  la,  oo  Id, 
Oo  la  la." 

As  he  sang  the  series  of  "Oo  la  las"  he  kept  time  with 
strokes  of  his  brush,  one  stroke  to  each  "la,"  until  a 
microscope  could  not  have  detected  the  smallest  crumb 
of  foreign  matter  on  the  red  carpet. 

Then  he  hoisted  himself  wheezily  to  his  feet  and 
with  critical  eye  examined  the  cabin.  It  was  perfec- 
tion. Once  more  he  sighed  the  happy  little  sigh  of 
work  well  done;  then  he  gathered  up  his  brush,  his 
dustpan  and  his  collection  of  little  cleaning  rags  and 
entered  the  stateroom  next  door,  where  he  expertly  set 
about  making  things  tidy  to  an  accompaniment  of 
"Oo  la  las." 

Suddenly  in  the  midst  of  a  "la  la,"  he  broke  off,  and 
his  wide  brow  puckered  as  an  outward  sign  that  some 
disquieting  thought  was  stirring  beneath  it.  He  was 
not  going  to  be  able  to  buy  his  little  son  Napoleon  a 
violin  this  trip  either. 

The  look  of  contentment  he  usually  wore  while  doing 
the  work  he  loved  gave  way  to  small  furrows  of  worry. 
He  was  saying  silently  to  himself:  "Ah,  Alphonse,  old 
boy,  this  violin  situation  is  getting  serious.  Your  little 
Napoleon  is  thirteen,  and  it  is  at  that  tender  age  that 
virtuosos  begin  to  find  themselves.  And  what  is  a 
virtuoso  without  a  violin  ?  You  should  be  a  steward  of 


The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon      13 

the  first  class,  old  turnip,  -where  each  trip  you  would 
be  tipped  the  price  of  a  violin;  on  second-class  tips 
one  cannot  buy  even  mouth  organs.  Alas !" 

Each  trip  now,  for  months,  Monsieur  Pettipon  had 
said  to  his  wife  as  he  left  his  tiny  flat  in  the  Rue 
Dauphine,  "This  time,  Therese,  I  will  have  a  million- 
aire. He  will  see  with  what  care  I  smooth  his  sheets 
and  pick  the  banana  skins  from  the  floor,  and  he  will 
say,  'This  Pettipon  is  not  such  a  bad  lot.  I  will  give 
him  twenty  dollars.'  Or  he  will  write  to  M.  Victor 
Ronssoy  about  me,  and  Monsieur  Ronssoy  will  order 
the  captain  to  order  the  chief  steward  to  make  me  a 
steward  of  the  first  class,  and  then,  my  dear,  I  will  buy 
a  violin  the  most  wonderful  for  our  little  cabbage." 

To  which  the  practical  Therese  would  reply,  "Mil- 
lionaires do  not  travel  second  class." 

And  Monsieur  Pettipon  would  smile  hopefully  and 
say  "Who  can  tell?"  although  he  knew  perfectly  well 
that  she  was  right. 

And  Therese  would  pick  a  nonexistent  hair  from  the 
worn  collar  of  his  coat  and  remark,  "Oh,  if  you  were 
only  a  steward  of  the  first  class,  my  Alphonse !" 

"Patience,  my  dear  Therese,  patience,"  he  would 
Bay,  secretly  glowing  as  men  do  when  their  life  ambi- 
tion is  touched  on. 

"Patience?  Patience,  indeed!"  she  would  exclaim. 
"Have  you  not  crossed  on  the  Voltaire  a  hundred  and 
twenty-seven  times?  Has  a  speck  of  dust  ever  been 
found  in  one  of  your  cabins?  You  should  have  been 
promoted  long  ago.  You  are  being  done  a  dirtiness, 
Monsieur  Pettipon." 

And  he  would  march  off  to  his  ship,  wagging  his  big 
head. 

This  trip,   clearly,   there  was  no  millionaire.      In 


14     The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

C  341  was  a  young  painter  and  his  bride ;  his  tip  would 
be  two  dollars,  and  that  would  be  enough,  for  was  he 
not  a  fellow  artist  ?  In  C  342  were  two  lingerie  buyers 
from  New  York;  they  would  exact  much  service,  give 
hints  of  much  reward  and,  unless  Monsieur  Pettipon 
looked  sharp,  would  slip  away  without  tipping  him  at 
all.  In  C  343  were  school-teachers,  two  to  a  berth; 
Monsieur  Pettipon  appraised  them  at  five  dollars  for 
the  party;  C  344  contained  two  fat  ladies — very  sick; 
and  C  345  contained  two  thin  ladies — both  sick.  Say 
a  dollar  each.  In  C  346  was  a  shaggy-bearded  indi- 
vidual— male — of  unknown  derivation,  who  spoke  an 
explosive  brand  of  English,  which  burst  out  in  a  series 
of  grunts,  and  who  had  economical  habits  in  the  use 
of  soap.  It  was  doubtful,  reasoned  Monsieur  Pettipon, 
if  the  principle  of  tipping  had  ever  penetrated  the  wild 
regions  from  which  this  being  unquestionably  hailed. 
Years  of  experience  had  taught  Monsieur  Pettipon  to 
appraise  with  a  quite  uncanny  accuracy  the  amount 
of  tips  he  would  get  from  his  clients,  as  he  called  them. 

Still  troubled  in  his  mind  over  his  inability  to  pro- 
vide a  new  violin  for  the  promising  Napoleon,  Mon- 
sieur Pettipon  went  about  his  work,  and  in  the  course 
of  time  reached  Stateroom  C  346  and  tapped  with  soft 
knuckles. 

"Come,"  grunted  the  shaggy  occupant. 

Monsieur  Pettipon,  with  an  apologetic  flood  of  "par- 
dons," entered.  He  stopped  in  some  alarm.  The 
shaggy  one,  in  violently  striped  pajamas,  was  standing 
in  the  center  of  the  cabin,  plainly  very  indignant  about 
something.  He  fixed  upon  Monsieur  Pettipon  a  pair 
of  accusing  eyes.  With  the  air  of  a  conjurer  doing  a 
trick  he  thrust  his  hand,  palm  upward,  beneath  the 
surprised  nose  of  Monsieur  Pettipon. 


The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon      15 

"Behold !"  cried  the  shaggy  one  in  a  voice  of  thunder. 

Monsieur  Pettipon  peered  into  the  outstretched  hand. 
In  the  cupped  palm  was  a  small  dark  object.  It  was 
alive. 

Monsieur  Pettipon,  speechless  with  horror,  regarded 
the  thing  with  round  unbelieving  eyes.  He  felt  as  if 
he  had  been  struck  a  heavy,  stunning  blow. 

At  last  with  a  great  effort  he  asked  weakly,  "You 
found  him  here,  monsieur  ?" 

"I  found  him  here,"  declared  the  shaggy  one,  nod- 
ding his  bushy  head  toward  his  berth. 

The  world  of  Monsieur  Pettipon  seemed  to  come 
crashing  down  around  his  ears. 

"Impossible !"  panted  Monsieur  Pettipon.  "It  could 
not  be." 

"It  could  be,"  said  the  shaggy  one  sternly,  "because 
it  was." 

He  continued  to  hold  the  damnatory  evidence  within 
a  foot  of  Monsieur  Pettipon's  staring  incredulous  eyes. 

"But,  monsieur,"  protested  the  steward,  "I  tell  you 
the  thing  could  not  be.  One  hundred  and  twenty-seven 
times  have  I  crossed  on  this  Voltaire,  and  such  a  thing 
has  not  been.  Never,  never,  never." 

"I  did  not  make  him,"  ptut  in  the  passenger,  with  a 
show  of  irony. 

"No,  no!  Of  course  monsieur  did  not  make  him. 
That  is  true.  But  perhaps  monsieur " 

The  gesture  of  the  overwhelmed  Pettipon  was  deli- 
cate but  pregnant. 

The  shaggy  passenger  glared  ferociously  at  the 
steward. 

"Do  you  mean  I  brought  him  with  me?"  he  de- 
manded in  a  terrible  voice. 

Monsieur  Pettipon  shrugged  his  shoulders. 


16     The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

"Such  things  happen,"  he  said  soothingly.  "When 
one  travels " 

The  shaggy  one  interrupted  him. 

"He  is  not  mine!"  he  exploded  bellicosely.  "He 
never  was  mine.  I  found  him  here,  I  tell  you.  Here ! 
Something  shall  be  done  about  this." 

Monsieur  Pettipon  had  begun  to  tremble ;  tiny  moist 
drops  bedewed  his  expanse  of  brow;  to  lose  his  job 
would  be  tragedy  enough;  but  this — this  would  be 
worse  than  tragedy ;  it  would  be  disgrace.  His  artistic 
reputation  was  at  stake.  His  career  was  tottering  on 
a  hideous  brink.  All  Paris,  all  France  would  know, 
and  would  laugh  at  him. 

"Give  me  the  little  devil,"  he  said  humbly.  "I,  my- 
self, personally,  will  see  to  it  that  he  troubles  you  no 
more.  He  shall  perish  at  once,  monsieur;  he  shall  die 
the  death.  You  will  have  fresh  bedding,  fresh  carpet, 
fresh  everything.  There  will  be  fumigations.  I  beg 
that  monsieur  will  think  no  more  of  it." 

Savagely  he  took  the  thing  between  plump  thumb 
and  forefinger  and  bore  it  from  the  stateroom,  holding 
it  at  arm's  length.  In  the  corridor,  with  the  door  shut 
on  the  shaggy  one,  Monsieur  Pettipon,  feverishly  agi- 
tated, muttered  again  and  again,  "He  did  bring  it  with 
him.  He  did  bring  it  with  him." 

All  that  night  Monsieur  Pettipon  lay  in  his  berth, 
stark  awake,  and  brooded.  The  material  side  of  the 
affair  was  bad  enough.  The  shaggy  one  would  report 
the  matter  to  the  head  steward  of  the  second  class; 
Monsieur  Pettipon  would  be  ignominiously  discharged; 
the  sin,  he  had  to  admit,  merited  the  extremest  penalty. 
Jobs  are  hard  to  get,  particularly  when  one  is  fat  and 
past  forty.  He  saw  the  Pettipons  ejected  from  their 
flat;  he  saw  his  little  Napoleon  a  cafe  waiter  instead 


The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Petti pon      17 

of  a  virtuoso.  All  this  was  misery  enough.  But  it  was 
the  spiritual  side  that  tortured  him  most  poignantly, 
that  made  him  toss  and  moan  as  the  waves  swished 
against  the  liner's  sides  and  an  ocean  dawn  stole  fog- 
gily through  the  porthole.  He  was  a  failure  at  the  work 
he  loved. 

Consider  the  emotions  of  an  artist  who  suddenly 
realizes  that  his  masterpiece  is  a  tawdry  smear;  con- 
sider the  shock  to  a  gentleman,  proud  of  his  name, 
who  finds  a  blot  black  as  midnight  on  the  escutcheon 
he  had  for  many  prideful  years  thought  stainless.  To 
the  mind  of  the  crushed  Pettipon  came  the  thought 
that  even  though  his  job  was  irretrievably  lost  he  still 
might  be  able  to  save  his  honor. 

As  early  as  it  was  possible  he  went  to  the  head 
steward  of  the  second  class,  his  immediate  superior. 

There  were  tears  in  Monsieur  Pettipon's  eyes  and 
voice  as  he  said,  "Monsieur  Deveau,  a  great  misfortune, 
as  you  have  doubtless  been  informed,  has  overtaken  me." 

The  head  steward  of  the  second  class  looked  up 
sharply.  He  was  in  a  bearish  mood,  for  he  had  lost 
eleven  francs  at  cards  the  night  before. 

"Well,  Monsieur  Pettipon  ?"  he  asked  brusquely. 

"Oh,  he  has  heard  about  it,  he  has  heard  about  it," 
thought  Monsieur  Pettipon;  and  his  voice  trembled  as 
he  said  aloud,  "I  have  done  faithful  work  on  the  Vol- 
taire for  twenty-two  years,  Monsieur  Deveau,  and  such 
a  thing  has  never  before  happened." 

"What  thing  ?  Of  what  do  you  speak  ?  Out  with  it, 
man." 

"This!"  cried  Monsieur  Pettipon  tragically. 

He  thrust  out  his  great  paw  of  a  hand ;  in  it  nestled 
a  small  dark  object,  now  lifeless. 

The  head  steward  gave  it  a  swift  examination. 


1 8     The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Petti pon 

"Ah!"  lie  exclaimed  petulantly.  "Must  you  trouble 
me  with,  your  pets  at  this  time  when  I  am  busy  ?" 

"Pets,  monsieur  ?"  The  aghast  Pettipon  raised  pro- 
testing hands  toward  heaven.  "Oh,  never  in  this  life, 
monsieur  the  head  steward." 

"Then  why  do  you  bring  him  to  me  with  such  great 
care?"  demanded  the  head  steward.  "Do  you  think 
perhaps,  Monsieur  Pettipon,  that  I  wish  to  discuss 
entomology  at  six  in  the  morning?  I  assure  you  that 
such  a  thing  is  not  a  curiosity  to  me.  I  have  lived, 
Monsieur  Pettipon." 

"But — but  he  was  in  one  of  my  cabins,"  groaned 
Monsieur  Pettipon. 

"Indeed?"  The  head  steward  was  growing  impa- 
tient. "I  did  not  suppose  you  had  caught  him  with  a 
hook  and  line.  Take  him  away.  Drown  him.  Bury 
him.  Burn  him.  Do  I  care?" 

"He  is  furious,"  thought  Monsieur  Pettipon,  "at  my 
sin.  But  he  is  pretending  not  to  be.  He  will  save  up 
his  wrath  until  the  Voltaire  returns  to  France,  and 
then  he  will  denounce  me  before  the  whole  ship's  com- 
pany. I  know  these  long-nosed  Normans.  Even  so, 
I  must  save  my  honor  if  I  can." 

He  leaned  toward  the  head  steward  and  said  with 
great  earnestness  of  tone,  "I  assure  you,  monsieur  the 
head  steward,  that  I  took  every  precaution.  The  pas- 
senger who  occupies  the  cabin  is,  between  ourselves,  a 
fellow  of  great  dirtiness.  I  am  convinced  he  brought 
this  aboard  with  him.  I  have  my  reasons,  monsieur. 
Did  I  not  say  to  Georges  Prunier — he  is  steward  in  the 
corridor  next  to  mine — 'Georges,  old  oyster,  that  hairy 
fellow  in  C  346  has  a  look  of  itchiness  which  I  do  not 
fancy.  I  must  be  on  my  guard/  You  can  ask  Georges 
Prunier — an  honest  fellow,  monsieur  the  head  steward 


The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon      19 

— if  I  did  not  say  this.  And  Georges  said,  'Alphonse, 
my  friend,  I  incline  to  agree  with  you.'  And  I  said 
to  Georges,  'Georges,  my  brave,  it  would  not  surprise 
me  if— 

The  head  steward  of  the  second  class  broke  in  tartly : 
"You  should  write  a  book  of  memoirs,  Monsieur  Petti- 
pon. When  I  have  nothing  to  do  I  will  read  it.  But 
now  have  I  not  a  thousand  and  two  things  to  do  ?  Take 
away  your  pet.  Have  him  stuffed.  Present  him  to  a 
museum.  Do  I  care?"  He  started  to  turn  from  Mon- 
sieur Pettipon,  whose  cheeks  were  quivering  like  spilled 

jelly- 

"I  entreat  you,  Monsieur  Deveau,"  begged  Pettipon, 
"to  consider  how  for  twenty-two  years,  three  months 
and  a  day,  such  a  thing  had  not  happened  in  my 
cabins.  This  little  rascal — and  you  can  see  how  tiny 
he  is — is  the  only  one  that  has  ever  been  found,  and 
I  give  you  my  word,  the  word  of  a  Pettipon,  that  he 
was  not  there  when  we  sailed.  The  passenger  brought 
him  with  him.  I  have  my  reasons " 

"Enough !"  broke  in  the  head  steward  of  the  second 
class  with  mounting  irritation.  "I  can  stand  no  more. 
Go  back  to  your  work,  Monsieur  Pettipon." 

He  presented  his  back  to  Monsieur  Pettipon.  Sick  at 
heart  the  adipose  steward  went  back  to  his  domain. 
As  he  made  the  cabins  neat  he  did  not  sing  the  little 
song  with  the  chorus  of  "oo  la  las." 

"There  was  deep  displeasure  in  that  Norman's  eye," 
said  Monsieur  Pettipon  to  himself.  "He  does  not  be- 
lieve that  the  passenger  is  to  blame.  Your  goose  ia 
cooked,  my  poor  Alphonse.  You  must  appeal  to  the 
chief  steward." 

To  the  chief  steward,  in  his  elaborate  office  in  the 


2O      The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

first  class,  went  Monsieur  Pettipon,  nervously  opening 
and  shutting  his  fat  fists. 

The  chief  steward,  a  tun  of  a  man,  bigger  even  than 
Monsieur  Pettipon,  peeped  at  his  visitor  from  beneath 
waggish,  furry  eyebrows. 

"I  am  Monsieur  Pettipon,"  said  the  visitor  timidly. 
"For  twenty-two  years,  three  months  and  a  day,  I  have 
been  second-class  steward  on  the  Voltaire,  and  never 
monsieur  the  chief  steward,  has  there  been  a  complaint, 
one  little  complaint  against  me.  One  hundred  and 
twenty-seven  trips  have  I  made,  and  never  has  a  single 
passenger  said " 

"I'm  sorry,"  interrupted  the  chief  steward,  "but  I 
can't  make  you  a  first-class  steward.  No  vacancies. 
Next  year,  perhaps ;  or  the  year  after " 

"Oh,  it  isn't  that,"  said  Monsieur  Pettipon  miser- 
ably. "It  is  this." 

He  held  out  his  hand  so  that  the  chief  steward  could 
see  its  contents. 

"Ah  ?"  exclaimed  the  chief  steward,  arching  his  furry 
brows.  "Is  this  perhaps  a  bribe,  monsieur?" 

"Monsieur  the  chief  steward  is  good  enough  to  jest," 
said  Pettipon,  standing  first  on  one  foot  and  then  on 
the  other  in  his  embarrassment,  "but  I  assure  you  that 
it  has  been  a  most  serious  blow  to  me." 

"Blow  ?"  repeated  the  chief  steward.  "Blow  ?  Is  it 
that  in  the  second  class  one  comes  to  blows  with  them  ?" 

"He  knows  about  it  all,"  thought  Monsieur  Petti- 
pon. "He  is  making  game  of  me."  His  moon  face 
stricken  and  appealing,  Monsieur  Pettipon  addressed 
the  chief  steward.  "He  brought  it  with  him,  monsieur 
the  chief  steward.  I  have  my  reasons : 

"Who  brought  what  with  whom?"  queried  the  chief 
steward  with  a  trace  of  asperity. 


The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon     21 

"The  passenger  brought  this  aboard  with  him,"  ex- 
plained Monsieur  Pettipon.  "I  have  good  reasons, 
monsieur,  for  making  so  grave  a  charge.  Did  I  not 
say  to  Georges  Pnmier — he  is  in  charge  of  the  cor- 
ridor next  to  mine — 'Georges,  old  oyster,  that  hairy 
fellow  in  C  346  has  a  look  of  itchiness  which  I  do  not 
fancy.  I  must  be  on  my  guard.'  You  can  ask  Georges 
Prunier — a  thoroughly  reliable  fellow,  monsieur,  a 
wearer  of  the  military  medal,  and  the  son  of  the  lead- 
ing veterinarian  in  Amiens — if  I  did  not  say  this.  And 
Georges  said " 

The  chief  steward  held  up  a  silencing  hand. 

"Stop,  I  pray  you,  before  my  head  bursts,"  he  com- 
manded. "Your  repartee  with  Georges  is  most  affect- 
ing, but  I  do  not  see  how  it  concerns  a  busy  man  like 
me." 

"But  the  passenger  said  he  found  this  in  his  berth !" 
wailed  Monsieur  Pettipon,  wringing  his  great  hands. 

"My  compliments  to  monsieur  the  passenger,"  said 
the  chief  steward,  "and  tell  him  that  there  is  no 
reward." 

"!Now  I  am  sure  he  is  angry  with  me,"  said  Mon- 
sieur Pettipon  to  himself.  "These  sly,  smiling,  fat 
fellows!  I  must  convince  him  of  my  innocence." 

Monsieur  Pettipon  laid  an  imploring  hand  on  the 
chief  steward's  sleeve. 

"I  can  only  say,"  said  Monsieur  Pettipon  in  the  ac- 
cents of  a  man  on  the  gallows,  "that  I  did  all  within 
the  power  of  one  poor  human  to  prevent  this  dreadful 
occurrence.  I  hope  monsieur  the  chief  steward  will 
believe  that.  I  cannot  deny  that  the  thing  exists" — 
as  he  spoke  he  sadly  contemplated  the  palm  of  his  hand 
— "and  that  the  evidence  is  against  me.  But  in  my 
heart  I  know  I  am  innocent.  I  can  only  hope  that 


22      The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

monsieur  will  take  into  account  my  long  and  blameless 
service,  my  one  hundred  and  twenty-seven  trips,  my 
twenty-two  years,  three  months  and " 

"My  dear  Pettipon,"  said  the  chief  steward  with  a 
ponderous  jocosity,  "try  to  bear  your  cross.  The  only 
way  the  Voltaire  can  atone  for  this  monstrous  sin  of 
yours  is  to  be  sunk,  here,  now  and  at  once.  But  I'm 
afraid  the  captain  and  Monsieur  Ronssoy  might  ob- 
ject. Get  along  now,  while  I  think  up  a  suitable 
penance  for  you." 

As  he  went  with  slow,  despairing  steps  to  his  quar- 
ters Monsieur  Pettipon  said  to  himself,  "It  is  clear 
he  thinks  me  guilty.  Helas!  Poor  Alphonse."  For 
long  minutes  he  sat,  his  huge  head  in  his  hands,  pon- 
dering. 

"I  must,  I  shall  appeal  to  him  again,"  he  said  half 
aloud.  "There  are  certain  points  he  should  know. 
What  Georges  Prunier  said,  for  instance." 

So  back  he  went  to  the  chief  steward. 

"Holy  Blue!"  cried  that  official.  "You?  Again? 
Found  another  one?" 

"No,  no,  monsieur  the  chief  steward,"  replied  Mon- 
sieur Pettipon  in  agonies;  "there  is  only  one.  In  twen- 
ty-two years  there  has  been  only  one.  He  brought  it 
with  him.  Ask  Georges  Prunier  if  I  did  not  say " 

"Name  of  a  name!"  burst  out  the  chief  steward. 
"Am  I  to  hear  all  that  again  ?  Did  I  not  say  to  forget 
the  matter  ?" 

"Forget,  monsieur?  Could  Napoleon  forget  Water- 
loo ?  I  beg  that  you  permit  me  to  explain." 

"Oh,  bother  you  and  your  explanations!"  cried  the 
chief  steward  with  the  sudden  impatience  common  to 
fat  men.  "Take  them  to  some  less  busy  man.  The 
captain,  for  example." 


The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon     23 

Monsieur  Pettipon  bowed  himself  from  the  office, 
covered  with  confusion  and  despair.  Had  not  the  chief 
steward  refused  to  hear  him?  Did  not  the  chief 
steward's  words  imply  that  the  crime  was  too  heinous 
for  any  one  less  than  the  captain  himself  to  pass  judg- 
ment on  it?  To  the  captain  Monsieur  Pettipon  would 
have  to  go,  although  he  dreaded  to  do  it,  for  the  cap- 
tain was  notoriously  the  busiest  and  least  approachable 
man  on  the  ship.  Desperation  gave  him  courage. 
Breathless  at  his  own  temerity,  pink  as  a  peony  with 
shame,  Monsieur  Pettipon  found  himself  bowing  be- 
fore a  blur  of  gold  and  multihued  decorations  that  in- 
stinct rather  than  his  reason  told  him  was  the  captain 
of  the  Voltaire. 

The  captain  was  worried  about  the  fog,  and  about 
the  presence  aboard  of  M.  Victor  Ronssoy,  the  presi- 
dent of  the  line,  and  his  manner  was  brisk  and  chilly. 

"Did  I  ring  for  you  ?"  he  asked. 

"No,"  jerked  out  Monsieur  Pettipon,  "but  if  the 
captain  will  pardon  the  great  liberty,  I  have  a  matter  of 
the  utmost  importance  on  which  I  wish  to  address  him." 

"Speak,  man,  speak !"  shot  out  the  captain,  alarmed 
by  Monsieur  Pettipon's  serious  aspect.  "Leak  ?  Fire  ? 
Somebody  overboard  ?  What  ?" 

"No,  no !"  cried  Monsieur  Pettipon,  trickles  of  moist 
emotion  sliding  down  the  creases  of  his  round  face. 
"Kobody  overboard;  no  leak;  no  fire.  But — monsieur 
the  captain — behold  this !" 

He  extended  his  hand  and  the  captain  bent  his  head 
over  it  with  quick  interest. 

For  a  second  the  captain  stared  at  the  thing  in  Mon- 
sieur Pettipon's  hand;  then  he  stared  at  Monsieur 
Pettipon. 

"Ten  thousand  million  little  blue  devils,  what  does 


24     The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

this  mean?"  roared  the  captain.  "Have  you  been 
drinking  ?" 

Monsieur  Pettipon  quaked  to  the  end  of  his  toes. 

"]STo,  no!"  he  stammered.  "I  am  only  too  sober, 
monsieur  the  captain,  and  I  do  not  blame  you  for 
being  enraged.  The  Voltaire  is  your  ship,  and  you 
love  her,  as  I  do.  I  feel  this  disgrace  even  more  than 
you  can,  monsieur  the  captain,  believe  me.  But  I  beg 
of  you  do  not  be  hasty ;  my  honor  is  involved.  I  admit 
that  this  thing  was  found  in  one  of  my  cabins.  Con- 
sider my  horror  when  he  was  found.  It  was  no  less 
than  yours,  monsieur  the  captain.  But  I  give  you  my 
word,  the  word  of  a  Pettipon,  that " 

The  captain  stopped  the  rush  of  words  with,  "Com- 
pose yourself.  Come  to  the  point." 

"Point,  monsieur  the  captain  ?"  gasped  Pettipon.  "la 
it  not  enough  point  that  this  thing  was  found  in  one 
of  my  cabins?  Such  a  thing — in  the  cabin  of  Mon- 
sieur Alphonse  Marie  Louis  Camille  Pettipon !  Is  that 
nothing?  For  twenty-two  years  have  I  been  steward 
in  the  second  class,  and  not  one  of  these,  not  so  much 
as  a  baby  one,  has  ever  been  found.  I  am  beside  my- 
self with  chagrin.  My  only  defense  is  that  a  passen- 
ger— a  fellow  of  dirtiness,  monsieur  the  captain — 
brought  it  with  him.  He  denies  it.  I  denounce  him 
as  a  liar  the  most  barefaced.  For  did  I  not  say  to 
Georges  Prunier — a  fellow  steward  and  a  man  of  in- 
tegrity— 'Georges,  old  oyster,  that  hairy  fellow  in  C  346 
has  a  look  of  itchiness  which  I  do  not  fancy.  I  must 
be  on  my  guard.'  And  Georges  said " 

The  captain,  with  something  like  a  smile  playing 
about  among  his  whiskers,  interrupted  with,  "So  this 
is  the  first  one  in  twenty-two  years,  eh?  We'll  have 
to  look  into  this,  Monsieur  Pettipon.  Good  day." 


The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon     25 

"Look  into  this,"  groaned  Pettipon  as  he  stumbled 
down  a  gangway.  "I  know  what  that  means.  Ah,  poor 
Therese !  Poor  Napoleon  1" 

He  looked  down  at  the  great,  green,  hungry  waves 
with  a  calculating  eye;  he  wondered  if  they  would  be 
cold.  He  placed  a  tentative  hand  on  the  rail.  Then, 
an  inspiration  came  to  him.  M.  Victor  Konssoy  was 
aboard;  he  was  the  last  court  of  appeal.  Monsieur 
Pettipon  would  dare,  for  the  sake  of  his  honor,  to  go 
to  the  president  of  the  line  himself.  For  tortured 
minutes  Alphonse  Pettipon  paced  up  and  down,  and 
something  closely  resembling  sobs  shook  his  huge  frame 
as  he  looked  about  his  little  kingdom  and  thought  of 
his  impending  banishment.  At  last  by  a  supreme  effort 
of  will  he  nerved  himself  to  go  to  the  suite  of  Monsieur 
Ronssoy.  It  was  a  splendid  suite  of  five  rooms,  and 
Monsieur  Pettipon  had  more  than  once  peeked  into  it 
when  it  was  empty  and  had  noted  with  fascinated  eyes 
the  perfection  of  its  appointments.  But  now  he  twice 
turned  from  the  door,  his  courage  oozing  from  him.  On 
the  third  attempt,  with  the  recklessness  of  a  condemned 
man,  he  rapped  on  the  door. 

The  president  of  the  line  was  a  white-haired  giant 
with  a  chin  like  an  anvil  and  bright  humorous  eyes, 
like  a  kingfisher. 

"Monsieur  Konssoy,"  began  the  flustered,  damp- 
browed  Pettipon  in  a  faltering  voice,  "I  have  only 
apologies  to  make  for  this  intrusion.  Only  a  matter  of 
the  utmost  consequence  could  cause  me  to  take  the 
liberty." 

The  president's  brow  knitted  anxiously. 

"Out  with  it,"  he  ordered.  "Are  we  sinking  ?  Have 
we  hit  an  iceberg?" 

"JSTo,  no,  monsieur  the  president!     But  surely  you 


26     The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

have  heard  what  I,  Alphonse  Pettipon,  steward  in  the 
second  class,  found  in  one  of  my  cabins?" 

"Oh,  so  you're  Pettipon!"  exclaimed  the  president, 
and  his  frown  vanished.  "Ah,  yes ;  ah,  yes." 

"He  knows  of  my  disgrace,"  thought  Monsieur  Petti- 
pon, mopping  his  streaming  brow.  "Now  all  is  lost 
indeed."  Hanging  his  head  he  addressed  the  presi- 
dent: "Alas,  yes,  I  am  none  other  than  that  unhappy 
Pettipon,"  he  said  mournfully.  "But  yesterday,  mon- 
sieur, I  was  a  proud  man.  This  was  my  one  hundred 
and  twenty-eighth  trip  on  the  Voltaire.  I  had  not  a 
mark  against  me.  But  the  world  has  been  black  for  me, 
monsieur  the  president,  since  I  found  this." 

He  held  out  his  hand  so  that  the  president  could 
view  the  remains  lying  in  it. 

"Ah,"  exclaimed  the  president,  adjusting  his  pince- 
nez,  "a  perfect  specimen !" 

"But  note,  monsieur  the  president,"  begged  Mon- 
sieur Pettipon,  "that  he  is  a  mere  infant.  But  a  few 
days  old,  I  am  sure.  He  could  not  have  been  aboard 
long.  One  can  see  that.  I  am  convinced  that  it  was 
the  passenger  who  brought  him  with  him.  I  have  my 
reasons  for  making  this  serious  charge,  Monsieur 
Eonssoy.  Good  reasons  too.  Did  I  not  say  to  Georges 
Prunier — a  steward  of  the  strictest  honesty,  monsieur 
— 'Georges,  old  oyster,  that  hairy  fellow  in  C  346  has 
a  look  of  itchiness  which  I  do  not  fancy.'  And  Georges 
said,  'Alphonse,  my  friend ' ' 

"Most  interesting,"  murmured  the  president.  "Pray 
proceed." 

With  a  wealth  of  detail  and  with  no  little  passion 
Monsieur  Pettipon  told  his  story.  The  eyes  of  the 
president  encouraged  him,  and  he  told  of  little  Napo- 
leon and  the  violin,  and  of  his  twenty-two  years  on  the 


The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon     27 

Voltaire  and  how  proud  he  was  of  his  work  as  a 
steward,  and  how  severe  a  blow  the  affair  had  been 
to  him. 

When  he  had  finished,  Monsieur  Ronssoy  said,  "And 
you  thought  it  necessary  to  report  your  discovery  to 
the  head  steward  of  the  second  class?" 

"Yes,  monsieur." 

"And  to  the  chief  steward  ?" 

"Yes,  monsieur." 

"And  to  the  captain «" 

"Yes,  monsieur." 

"And  finally  to  me,  the  president  of  the  line  ?" 

"Even  so,  monsieur,"  said  the  perspiring  Pettipon. 

M.  Victor  Ronssoy  regarded  him  thoughtfully. 

"Monsieur  Pettipon,"  he  said,  "the  sort  of  man  I 
like  is  the  man  who  takes  his  job  seriously.  You 
would  not  have  raised  such  a  devil  of  a  fuss  about  so 
small  a  thing  as  this  if  you  were  not  that  sort  of  man. 
I  am  going  to  have  you  made  steward  of  my  suite  im- 
mediately, Monsieur  Pettipon.  Now  you  may  toss  that 
thing  out  of  the  porthole." 

"Oh,  no,  monsieur !"  cried  Alphonse  Pettipon,  great, 
grateful  tears  rushing  to  his  eyes.  "Never  in  this  life ! 
Him  I  shall  keep  always  in  my  watch  charm." 


II:  Mr.  Pottle  and  the  South- Sea 
Cannibals 


II:  Mr.  Pottle  and  the  South- 
Sea  Cannibals 

§i 

7|  /[^"  POTTLE  was  a  barber,  but  also  a  man  of 

/  m/m    imagination,  and  as  his  hands  went  through 

their  accustomed  motions,  his  mind  was  far 

away,  recalling  what  he  had  read  the  night  before. 

"Bright  Marquesas  sunlight  glinted  from 
the  cutlass  of  the  intrepid  explorer  as  with  a 
sweep  of  his  arm  he  brought  the  blade  down 
on  the  tattooed  throat  of  the  man-eating 
savage." 

Mr.  Pottle's  errant  mind  was  jerked  back  sharply 
from  the  South  Seas  to  Granville,  Ohio,  by  a  protesting 
voice. 

"Hey,  Pottle,  what's  bitin'  you?  You  took  a  slice 
out  o'  my  Adam's  apple  that  time." 

Mr.  Pottle,  with  apologetic  murmurs,  rubbed  the 
wound  with  an  alum  stick;  then  he  dusted  his  victim 
with  talcum  powder,  and  gave  the  patented  chair  a  little 
kick,  so  that  its  occupant  was  shot  bolt  upright. 

"Bay  rum?"  asked  Mr.  Pottle,  professionally. 

"Nope." 

"Dandruff-Death?" 


32     The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

"Nope." 

"Sweet  Lilac  Tonic?" 

"Nope." 

"Plain  water  V9 

"Yep." 

"Naked  savages  danced  and  howled  round 
the  great  pot  in  which  the  trussed  explorer 
had  been  placed.  The  cannibal  chief,  fire- 
brand in  hand,  made  ready  to  ignite  the  fagots 
under  the  pot  It  began  to  look  bad  for  the 
explorer." 

'Again  a  shrill  voice  of  protest  punctured  Mr.  Pottle'a 
day-dream. 

"Hey,  Pottle,  come  to  life!  You've  went  and  put 
Sweet  Lilac  Tonic  on  me  'stead  of  plain  water.  I  ain't 
going  to  no  coon  ball.  You've  gone  and  smelled  me 
up  like  a  screamin'  geranium." 

"Why,  so  I  have,  so  I  have,"  said  Mr.  Pottle,  in  ac- 
cents of  surprise  and  contrition.  "Sorry,  Luke.  It'll 
wear  off  in  a  day  or  two.  Guess  I  must  be  gettin' 
absent-minded." 

"That's  what  you  said  last  Saddy  when  you  clipped 
a  piece  out  o'  Virgil  Overholt's  ear,"  observed  Luke, 
with  some  indignation.  "What's  bitin'  you,  anyhow, 
Pottle  ?  You  used  to  be  the  best  barber  in  the  county 
before  you  took  to  readin'  them  books." 

"What  books  ?" 

"All  about  cannibals  and  explorers  and  the  South- 
Sea  Islands,"  answered  Luke. 

"They're  good  books,"  said  Mr.  Pottle  warmly.  His 
eyes  brightened.  "I  just  got  a  new  one,"  he  said.  "It's 
called  'Green  Isles,  Brown  Man-Eaters,  and  a  White 


Mr.  Pottle  and  the  Cannibals     33 

Man.'  I  sat  up  till  two  readin'  it.  It's  about  the 
Marquesas  Islands,  and  it's  a  darn'  excitin'  book, 
Luke." 

"It  excited  you  so  much  you  sliced  my  Adam's 
apple,"  grumbled  Luke,  clamping  on  his  rubber  collar. 
"You  had  better  cut  out  this  fool  readin'." 

"Don't  you  ever  read,  Luke  ?" 

"Sure  I  do.  'The  Mornin'  News-Press'  for  week- 
days, 'The  P'lice  Gazette'  when  I  come  here  to  get 
shaved  Saddy  nights,  and  the  Bible  for  Sundays. 
That's  readin'  enough  for  any  man." 

"Did  you  ever  read  'Robinson  Crusoe'  ?" 

"Nope,  but  I  heard  him." 

"Heard  him  ?    Heard  who  ?" 

"Crusoe,"  said  Luke,  snapping  his  ready-tied  tie 
into  place. 

"Heard  him  ?    You  couldn't  have  heard  him." 

"I  couldn't,  hey?    Well,  I  did." 

"Where  ?"  demanded  Mr.  Pottle. 

"Singin'  on  a  phonograph,"  said  Luke. 

Mr.  Pottle  said  nothing;  Luke  was  a  regular  cus- 
tomer, and  in  successful  modern  business  the  customer 
is  always  right.  However,  Mr.  Pottle  seized  a  strop 
and  by  his  vigorous  stroppings  silently  expressed  his 
disgust  at  a  man  who  hadn't  heard  of  "Robinson  Cru- 
soe," for  Robinson  was  one  of  Mr.  Pottle's  deities. 

When  Luke  reached  the  door,  he  turned. 

"Say,  Pottle,"  he  said,  "if  you're  so  nutty  about 
these  here  South  Sea  Islands,  why  don't  you  go  there  ?" 

Mr.  Pottle  ceased  his  stropping. 

"I  am  going,"  he  said. 

Luke  gave  a  dubious  hoot  and  vanished.  He  did  not 
realize  that  he  had  heard  Mr.  Pottle  make  the  big 
decision  of  his  life. 


34     The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

§2 

That  night  Mr.  Pottle  finished  the  book,  and 
dreamed,  as  he  had  dreamed  on  many  a  night  since  the 
lure  of  the  South  Seas  first  cast  a  spell  on  him,  that 
in  a  distant,  sun-loved  isle,  bright  with  greens  and 
purples,  he  reclined  beneath  the  manorinana-hine  (or 
umbrella  fern)  on  his  own  paepae  (or  platform),  a 
scarlet  pareu  (or  breech-clout)  about  his  middle,  a  yel- 
low hibiscus  flower  in  his  hair,  while  the  Tcukus  (or 
small  green  turtle-doves)  cooed  in  the  branches  of  the 
pevatvii  (or  banana-tree),  and  Bunnidori  (that  is,  she, 
with  the  Lips  of  Love),  a  tawny  maid  of  wondrous 
beauty,  played  softly  to  him  on  the  ukulele.  The  tan- 
talizing fragrance  of  a  bowl  of  popoi  (or  pudding) 
mingled  in  his  nostrils  with  the  more  delicate  perfume 
of  the  golden  blossoms  of  the  puu-epu  (or  mulberry- 
tree).  A  sound  in  the  jungle,  a  deep  boom!  boom! 
boom!  roused  him  from  this  reverie. 

"What  is  it,  O  Bunnidori  ?"  he  asked. 

"  'Tis  a  feast,  O  my  Pottle,  Lord  of  the  Menikea 
(that  is,  white  men),"  lisped  his  companion. 

"Upon  what  do  the  men  in  the  jungle  feast,  O  plump 
and  pleasing  daughter  of  delight  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Pottle, 
who  was  up  on  Polynesian  etiquette. 

She  lowered  her  already  low  voice  still  lower. 

"Upon  the  long  pig  that  speaks,"  she  whispered. 

A  delicious  shudder  ran  down  the  spine  of  the  sleep- 
ing Mr.  Pottle,  for  from  his  reading  he  knew  that  "the1 
long  pig  that  speaks"  means — man  I 

For  Mr.  Pottle  had  one  big  ambition,  one  great  sup- 
pressed desire.  It  was  the  dearest  wish  of  his  thirty-six 
years  of  life  to  meet  a  cannibal,  a  real  cannibal,  face 
to  face,  eye  to  eye. 


Mr.  Pottle  and  the  Cannibals     35 

Next  day  lie  sold  his  barber's  shop.  Two  months 
and  seventeen  days  later  he  was  unpacking  his  trunk 
in  the  tiny  settlement  of  Vait-hua,  in  the  Marquesas 
Islands,  in  the  heart  of  the  South  Seas. 

The  air  was  balmy,  the  sea  deep  purple,  the  nodding 
palms  and  giant  ferns  of  the  greenest  green  were  ex- 
actly as  advertised;  but  when  the  first  week  or  two  of 
enchantment  had  worn  off,  Mr.  Pottle  owned  to  a  cer- 
tain feeling  of  disappointment. 

He  tasted  popoi  and  found  it  rather  nasty ;  the  hotel 
in  which  he  stayed — the  only  one — was  deficient  in 
plumbing,  but  not  in  fauna.  The  natives — he  had  ex- 
pected great  things  of  the  natives — were  remarkably 
like  underdone  Pullman  porters  wrapped  in  bandana 
handkerchiefs.  They  were  not  exciting,  they  exhibited 
no  inclination  to  eat  Mr.  Pottle  or  one  another,  they 
coveted  his  pink  shirt,  and  begged  for  a  drink  from  hia 
bottle  of  Sweet  Lilac  Tonic. 

He  mentioned  his  disappointment  at  these  evidences 
of  civilization  to  Tiki  Tiu,  the  astute  native  who  kept 
the  general  store. 

Mr.  Pottle's  mode  of  conversation  was  his  own  in- 
vention. From  the  books  he  had  read  he  improvised  a 
language.  It  was  simple.  He  gave  English  words  a 
barbaric  sound,  usually  by  suffixing  "um"  or  "ee," 
shouted  them  at  the  top  of  his  voice  into  the  ear  of  the 
person  with  whom  he  was  conversing,  and  repeated 
them  in  various  permutations.  He  addressed  Tiki  Tiu 
with  brisk  and  confident  familiarity. 

"Helloee,  Tiki  Tiu.  Me  wantum  see  can-balls.  Can- 
balls  me  wantum  see.  Me  see  can-balls  wantum." 

The  venerable  native,  who  spoke  seventeen  island 
dialects  and  tongues,  and  dabbled  in  English,  Spanish, 
and  French,  appeared  to  apprehend  his  meaning;  in- 


36      The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

deed,  one  might  almost  have  thought  he  had  heard  this 
question  before,  for  he  answered  promptly: 

"No  more  can-balls  here.    All  Baptists." 

"Where  are  can-balls  ?  Can-balls  where  are  ?  Where 
can-balls  are?"  demanded  Mr.  Pottle. 

Tiki  Tiu  closed  his  eyes  and  let  blue  smoke  filter 
through  his  nostrils.  Finally  he  said: 

"Isle  of  O-pip-ee." 

"Isle  of  O-pip-ee  ?"  Mr.  Pottle  grew  excited.  "Where 
is  ?  Is  where  ?" 

"Two  hundred  miles  south,"  answered  Tiki  Tiu. 

Mr.  Pottle's  eyes  sparkled.    He  was  on  the  trail. 

"How  go  there?  Go  there  how?  There  go  how?" 
he  asked. 

Tiki  Tiu  considered.    Then  he  said : 

"I  take.    Nice  liT  schooner." 

"How  much  ?"  asked  Mr.  Pottle.     "Much  how  ?" 

Tiki  Tiu  considered  again. 

"Ninety-three  dol's,"  he  said. 

"Goodum!"  cried  Mr.  Pottle,  and  counted  the  pro- 
ceeds of  186  hair-cuts  into  the  hand  of  Tiki  Tiu. 

"You  take  me  to-mollow?  To-mollow  you  take  me? 
Me  you  take  to-mollow?  To-mollow?  To-mollow? 
To-mollow?"  asked  Mr.  Pottle. 

"Yes,"  promised  Tiki  Tiu;  "to-mollow." 

Mr.  Pottle  stayed  upi  all  night  packing;  from  time 
to  time  he  referred  to  much-thumbed  copies  of  "Rob- 
inson Crusoe"  and  "Green  Isles,  Brown  Man-Eaters, 
and  a  White  Man." 

Tiki  Tin's  nice  li'l'  schooner  deposited  Mr.  Pottle 
and  his  impedimenta  on  the  small,  remote  Isle  of 
O-pip-ee ;  Tiki  Tiu  agreed  to  return  for  him  in  a  month. 

"This  is  something  like  it,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Pottle 
as  he  unpacked  his  camera,  his  ukulele,  his  razors,  his 


Mr.  Pottle  and  the  Cannibals     37 

canned  soup,  his  heating  outfit,  and  his  bathing^suit. 
Only  the  wild  parrakeets  heard  him ;  save  for  their  calls, 
an  ominous  silence  hung  over  the  thick  foliage  of 
O-pip-ee.  There  was  not  the  ghost  of  a  sign  of  human 
habitation. 

Mr.  Pottle,  vaguely  apprehensive  of  sharks,  pitched 
his  pup-tent  far  up  on  the  beach;  to-morrow  would  be 
time  enough  to  look  for  cannibals. 

He  lay  smoking  and  thinking.  He  was  happy.  The 
realization  of  a  life's  ambition  lay,  so  to  speak,  just 
around  the  corner.  To-morrow  he  could  turn  that 
corner — if  he  wished. 

He  squirmed  as  something  small  nibbled  at  his  hip- 
bone, and  he  wondered  why  writers  of  books  on  the 
South  Seas  make  such  scant  mention  of  the  insects. 
Surely  they  must  have  noticed  the  little  creatures,  which 
had,  he  discovered,  a  way  of  making  their  presence  felt. 

He  wondered,  too,  now  that  he  came  to  think  of  it, 
if  he  hadn't  been  a  little  rash  in  coming  alone  to  a 
cannibal-infested  isle  with  no  weapons  of  defense  but  a 
shot-gun,  picked  up  at  a  bargain  at  the  last  minute, 
and  his  case  of  razors.  True,  in  all  the  books  by  ex- 
plorers he  had  read,  the  explorer  never  once  had  actu- 
ally been  eaten ;  he  always  lived  to  write  the  book.  But 
what  about  the  explorers  who  had  not  written  books? 
What  had  happened  to  them  ? 

He  flipped  a  centipede  off  his  ankle,  and  wondered 
if  he  hadn't  been  just  a  little  too  impulsive  to  sell  his 
profitable  barber-shop,  to  come  many  thousand  miles 
over  strange  waters,  to  maroon  himself  on  the  lonely 
Isle  of  O-pip-ee.  At  Vait-hua  he  had  heard  that  can- 
nibals do  not  fancy  white  men  for  culinary  purposes. 
He  gave  a  little  start  as  he  looked  down  at  his  own 


38     The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

bare  legs  and  saw  that  the  tropic  sun  had  already  tinted 
them  a  coffee  hue. 

Mr.  Pottle  did  not  sleep  well  that  night;  strange 
sounds  made  his  eyes  fly  open.  Once  it  was  a  curious 
scuttling  along  the  beach.  Peeping  out  from  his  pup- 
tent,  he  saw  half  a  dozen  tupa  (or  giant  tree-climbing 
crabs)  on  a  nocturnal  raid  on  a  cocoanut-grove.  Later 
he  heard  the  big  nuts  come  crashing  down.  The  day 
shift  of  insects  had  quit,  and  the  night  shift,  fresh  and 
hungry,  came  to  work ;  inquisitive  vampire  bats  butted 
their  soft  heads  against  his  tent. 

At  dawn  he  set  about  finding  a  permanent  abode. 
He  followed  a  small  fresh-water  stream  two  hundred 
yards  inland,  and  came  to  a  coral  cave  by  a  pool,  a 
ready-made  home,  cool  and,  more  important,  well  con- 
cealed. He  spent  the  day  settling  down,  chasing  out 
the  bats,  putting  up  mosquito-netting,  tidying  up.  He 
dined  well  off  cocoanut  milk  and  canned  sardines,  and 
was  so  tired  that  he  fell  asleep  before  he  could  change 
his  bathing-suit  for  pajamas.  He  slept  fairly  well, 
albeit  he  dreamed  that  two  cannibal  kings  were  dis- 
puting over  his  prostrate  form  whether  he  would  be 
better  as  a  ragout  or  stuffed  with  chestnuts. 

Waking,  he  decided  to  lie  low  and  wait  for  the 
savages  to  show  themselves,  for  he  knew  from  Tiki 
Tiu  that  the  Isle  of  O-pip-ee  was  not  more  than  seven 
miles  long  and  three  or  four  miles  wide ;  sooner  or  later 
they  must  pass  near  him.  He  figured  that  there  was 
logic  in  this  plan,  for  no  cannibal  had  seen  him  land; 
therefore  he  knew  that  the  cannibals  were  on  the  isle, 
but  they  did  not  know  that  he  was.  The  advantage 
was  his. 


Mr.  Pottle  and  the  Cannibals     39 


For  days  lie  remained  secluded,  subsisting  on  canned 
foods,  cocoanuts,  mei  (or  breadfruit),  and  an  occa- 
sional boiled  baby  feke  (or  young  devil-fish),  a  nest  of 
which  Mr.  Pottle  found  on  one  furtive  moonlight  sally 
to  the  beach. 

Emboldened  by  this  sally  and  by  the  silence  of  the 
woods,  Mr.  Pottle  made  other  expeditions  away  from 
his  cave ;  on  one  he  penetrated  fully  five  hundred  yards 
into  the  jungle.  He  was  prowling,  like  a  Cooper  In- 
dian, among  the  faufee  (or  lacebark-trees)  when  he 
heard  a  sound  that  sent  him  scurrying  and  quaking 
back  to  his  lair. 

It  was  a  faint  sound  that  the  breezes  bore  to  him, 
so  faint  that  he  could  not  be  sure;  but  it  sounded  like 
some  far-off  barbaric  instrument  mingling  its  dim 
notes  with  those  of  a  human  voice  raised  in  a  weird, 
primeval  chant. 

But  the  savages  did  not  show  themselves,  and  finding 
no  cannibals  by  night,  Mr.  Pottle  grew  still  bolder;  he 
ventured  on  short  explorations  by  day.  He  examined 
minutely  his  own  cove,  and  then  one  morning  crept 
over  a  low  ledge  and  into  the  next  cove.  He  made  his 
way  cautiously  along  the  smooth,  white  beach.  The 
morning  was  still,  calm,  beautiful.  Its  peace  all  but 
drove  thoughts  of  cannibals  from  his  mind.  He  came 
to  a  strip  of  land  running  into  the  sea;  another  cove 
lay  beyond.  Mr.  Pottle  was  an  impulsive  man;  he 
pushed  through  the  Jceoho  (or  thorn-bushes)  ;  his  foot 
slipped;  he  rolled  down  a  declivity  and  into  the  next 
cove. 

He  did  not  stay  there;  he  did  not  even  tarry.  What 
he  saw  sent  him  dashing  through  the  thorn-bushes  and 


40     The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

along  the  white  sand  like  a  hundred-yard  sprinter.  In 
the  sand  of  the  cove  were  many  imprints  of  naked 
human  feet. 

A  less  stout-hearted  man  than  Mr.  Pottle  would 
never  have  come  out  of  his  cave  again;  but  he  had 
come  eight  thousand  miles  to  see  a  cannibal.  An  over- 
mastering desire  had  spurred  him  on ;  he  would  not  give 
up  now.  Of  such  stuff  are  Ohio  barbers  made. 


A  few  days  later,  at  twilight,  he  issued  forth  from 
his  cave  again.  Around  his  loins  was  a  scarlet  pareu; 
he  had  discarded  his  bathing-suit  as  too  civilized.  In 
his  long,  black  hair  was  a  yellow  hibiscus  flower. 

Like  a  burglar,  he  crept  along  the  beach  to  the 
bushy  promontory  that  hid  the  cove  where  the  foot- 
prints were,  he  wiggled  through  the  bush,  he  slid  down 
to  the  third  beach,  and  crouched  behind  a  large  rock. 
The  beach  seemed  deserted ;  the  muttering  of  the  ocean 
was  the  only  sound  Mr.  Pottle  heard.  Another  rock, 
a  dozen  feet  away,  seemed  to  offer  better  concealment, 
and  he  stepped  out  toward  it,  and  then  stopped  short. 
Mr.  Pottle  stood  face  to  face  with  a  naked,  brown 


Mr.  Pottle's  feet  refused  to  take  him  away ;  a  paraly- 
sis such  as  one  has  in  nightmares  rooted  him  to  the 
spot.  His  returning  faculties  took  in  these  facts :  first, 
the  savage  was  unarmed;  second,  Mr.  Pottle  had  for- 
gotten to  bring  his  shot-gun.  It  was  a  case  of  man  to 
man-eater. 

The  savage  was  large,  well-fed,  almost  fat;  his  long 
black  Lair  fringed  his  head;  he  did  not  wear  a  par- 


Mr.  Pottle  and  the  Cannibals     41 

ticularly  bloodthirsty  expression;  indeed,  he  appeared 
startled  and  considerably  alarmed. 

Reason  told  Mr.  Pottle  that  friendliness  was  the  best 
policy.  Instinctively,  he  recalled  the  literature  of  his 
youth,  and  how  Buffalo  Bill  had  acted  in  a  like  cir- 
cumstance. He  raised  his  right  hand  solemnly  in  the 
air  and  ejaculated,  "How!" 

The  savage  raised  his  right  hand  solemnly  in  the 
air,  and  in  the  same  tone  also  ejaculated,  "How !"  Mr. 
Pottle  had  begun  famously.  He  said  loudly: 

"Who  you  ?    You  who  ?    Who  you  ?" 

The  savage,  to  Mr.  Pottle's  surprise,  answered  after 
a  brief  moment: 

"Me— Lee." 

Here  was  luck.  The  man-eater  could  talk  the  Pottle 
lingo. 

"Oh,"  said  Mr.  Pottle,  to  show  that  he  understood, 
"you — Mealy." 

The  savage  shook  his  head. 

"No,"  he  said ;  "Me — Lee.  Me — Lee."  He  thumped 
his  barrel-like  chest  with  each  word. 

"Oh,  I  see,"  cried  Mr.  Pottle;  "you  Mealy-mealy." 

The. savage  made  a  face  that  among  civilized  people 
would  have  meant  that  he  did  not  think  much  of  Mr. 
Pottle's  intellect. 

"Who  you  ?"  inquired  Mealy-mealy. 

Mr.  Pottle  thumped  his  narrow  chest. 

"Me,  Pottle.     Pottle!" 

"Oh,  you  Pottle-pottle,"  said  the  savage,  evidently 
pleased  with  his  own  powers  of  comprehension. 

Mr.  Pottle  let  it  go  at  that.  Why  argue  with  a 
cannibal?  He  addressed  the  savage  again. 

"Mealy-mealy,  you  eatum  long  pig?  Eatum  long 
pig  you  ?  Long  pig  you  eatum  ?" 


42      The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

This  question  agitated  Mealy-mealy.  He  trembled. 
Then  he  nodded  his  head  in  the  affirmative,  a  score  of 
rapid  nods. 

Mr.  Pottle's  voice  faltered  a  little  as  he  asked  the 
next  question. 

"Where  you  gottum  tribe  ?  You  gottum  tribe  where  ? 
Tribe  you  gottum  where  ?" 

Mealy-mealy  considered,  scowled,  and  said: 

"Gottum  velly  big  tribe  not  far.  Velly  fierce. 
Eatum  long  pig.  Eatum  Pottle-pottle." 

Mr.  Pottle  thought  it  would  be  a  good  time  to  go, 
but  he  could  think  of  no  polite  excuse  for  leaving.  An 
idea  occurred  to  Mealy-mealy. 

"Where  your  tribe,  Pottle-pottle  ?" 

His  tribe  ?  Mr.  Pottle's  eyes  fell  on  his  own  scarlet 
pareu  and  the  brownish  legs  beneath  it.  Mealy-mealy 
thought  he  was  a  cannibal,  too.  With  all  his  terror,  he 
had  a  second  or  two  of  unalloyed  enjoyment  of  the 
thought.  Like  all  barbers,  he  had  played  poker.  He 
bluffed. 

"My  tribe  velly,  velly,  velly,  velly,  velly,  velly  big," 
he  cried. 

"Where  is?"  asked  Mealy-mealy,  visibly  moved  by 
this  news. 

"Velly  near,"  cried  Mr.  Pottle;  "hungry  for  long 
pig;  for  long  pig  hungry- 
There  was  suddenly  a  brown  blur  on  the  landscape. 
With  the  agility  of  an  ape,  the  huge  savage  had  turned, 
darted  down  the  beach,  plunged  into  the  bush,  and 
disappeared. 

"He's  gone  to  get  his  tribe,"  thought  Mr.  Pottle,  and 
fled  in  the  opposite  direction. 

When  he  reached  his  cave,  panting,  he  tried  to  fit  a 
cartridge  into  his  shot-gun;  he'd  die  game,  anyhow. 


Mr.  Pottle  and  the  Cannibals     43 

But  rust  had  ruined  the  neglected  weapon,  and  he 
flung  it  aside  and  took  out  his  best  razor.  But  no  can- 
nibals came. 

He  was  scared,  but  happy.  He  had  seen  his  canni- 
bal ;  more,  he  had  talked  with  him ;  more  still,  he  had 
escaped  gracing  the  festal  board  by  a  snake's  knuckle. 
He  prudently  decided  to  stay  in  his  cave  until  the 
sails  of  Tiki  Tiu's  schooner  hove  in  sight. 

§5 

But  an  instinct  stronger  than  fear  drove  him  out  into 
the  open:  his  stock  of  canned  food  ran  low,  and  large 
red  ants  got  into  his  flour.  He  needed  cocoanuts  and 
breadfruit  and  baby  fekes  (or  young  octopi).  He  knew 
that  numerous  succulent  infant  fekes  lurked  in  holes 
in  his  own  cove,  and  thither  he  went  by  night  to  pull 
them  from  their  homes.  Hitherto  he  had  encountered 
only  small  felces,  with  tender  tentacles  only  a  few  feet 
long;  but  that  night  Mr.  Pottle  had  the  misfortune  to 
plunge  his  naked  arm  into  the  watery  nest  when  the 
father  of  the  family  was  at  home.  He  realized  his 
error  too  late. 

A  clammy  tentacle,  as  long  as  a  fire  hose,  as  strong 
as  the  arm  of  a  gorilla,  coiled  round  his  arm,  and  his 
scream  was  cut  short  as  the  giant  devil-fish  dragged  him 
below  the  water. 

The  water  was  shallow.  Mr.  Pottle  got  a  foothold, 
forced  his  head  above  water,  and  began  to  yell  for  help 
and  struggle  for  his  life. 

The  chances  against  a  nude  Ohio  barber  of  140 
pounds  in  a  wrestling  match  with  an  adult  octopus  are 
exactly  a  thousand  to  one.  The  giant  feJce  so  despised 
his  opponent  that  he  used  only  two  of  his  eight  mus- 


44     The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

cular  arms.  In  their  slimy,  relentless  clutch  Mr.  Pot- 
tle felt  his  strength  going  fast.  As  his  favorite  authors 
would  have  put  it,  "it  began,  to  look  bad  for  Mr. 
Pottle." 

The  thought  that  Mr.  Pottle  thought  would  be  his 
last  on  this  earth  was,  "I  wouldn't  mind  being  eaten 
by  cannibals,  but  to  be  drowned  by  a  trick  fish " 

Mr.  Pottle  threshed  about  in  one  final,  frantic  floun- 
der; his  strength  gave  out;  he  shut  his  eyes. 

He  heard  a  shrill  cry,  a  splashing  in  the  water,  felt 
himself  clutched  about  the  neck  from  behind,  and 
dragged  away  from  the  feke.  He  opened  his  eyes  and 
struggled  weakly.  One  tentacle  released  its  grip.  Mr. 
Pottle  saw  by  the  tropic  moon's  light  that  some  large 
creature  was  doing  battle  with  the  feke.  It  was  a  man, 
a  large  brown  man  who  with  a  busy  ax  hacked  the 
gristly  limbs  from  the  felce  as  fast  as  they  wrapped 
around  him.  Mr.  Pottle  staggered  to  the  dry  beach; 
a  tentacle  was  still  wound  tight  round  his  shoulder,  but 
there  was  no  octopus  at  the  other  end  of  it. 

The  angry  noise  of  the  devil-fish — for,  when 
wounded,  they  snarl  like  kicked  curs — stopped.  The 
victorious  brown  man  strode  out  of  the  water  to  where 
Mr.  Pottle  swayed  on  the  moon-lit  sand.  It  was  Mealy- 
mealy. 

"Bad  fishum !"  said  Mealy-mealy,  with  a  grin. 

"Good  manum!"  cried  Mr.  Pottle,  heartily. 

Here  was  romance,  here  was  adventure,  to  be 
snatched  from  the  jaws,  so  to  speak,  of  death  by  a  can- 
nibal !  It  was  unheard  of.  But  a  disquieting  thought 
occurred  to  Mr.  Pottle,  and  he  voiced  it. 

"Mealy-mealy,  why  you  save  me?  Why  save  you 
me?  Why  you  me  save?" 

Mealy-mealy's  grin  seemed  to  fade,  and  in  its  place 


Mr.  Pottle  and  the  Cannibals     45 

came  another  look  that  made  Mr.  Pottle  wish  he  were 
back  in  the  anaconda  grip  of  the  feke. 

"My  tribe  hungry  for  long  pig,"  growled  Mealy- 
mealy.  He  seemed  to  be  trembling  with  some  powerful 
emotion.  Hunger  ? 

Mr.  Pottle  knew  where  his  only  chance  for  escape 
lay. 

"My  tribe  velly,  velly,  velly  hungry,  too/'  he  cried. 
"Velly,  velly,  velly  near." 

He  thrust  his  fingers  into  his  mouth  and  gave  a  pierc- 
ing school-boy  whistle.  As  if  in  answer  to  it  there 
came  a  crashing  and  floundering  in  the  bushes.  His 
bluff  had  worked  only  too  well;  it  must  be  the  fellow 
man-eaters  of  Mealy-mealy. 

Mr.  Pottle  turned  and  ran  for  his  life.  Fifty  yards 
he  sped,  and  then  realized  that  he  did  not  hear  the 
padding  of  bare  feet  on  the  sand  behind  him  or  feel  hot 
breath  on  the  back  of  his  neck.  He  dared  to  cast  a  look 
over  his  shoulder.  Far  down  the  beach  the  moonlight 
showed  him  a  flying  brown  figure  against  the  silver- 
white  sand.  It  was  Mealy-mealy,  and  he  was  going  in 
the  opposite  direction  as  fast  as  ever  his  legs  would  take 
him. 

Surprise  drove  fear  temporarily  from  Mr.  Pottle's 
mind  as  he  watched  the  big  cannibal  become  a  blur, 
then  a  speck,  then  nothing.  As  he  watched  Mealy- 
mealy  recede,  he  saw  another  dark  figure  emerge  from 
the  bush  where  the  noise  had  been,  and  move  slowly 
out  on  the  moon-strewn  beach. 

It  was  a  baby  wild  pig.  It  sniffed  at  the  ocean, 
squealed,  and  trotted  back  into  the  bush. 

As  he  gnawed  his  morning  cocoanut,  Mr.  Pottle  was 
still  puzzled.  He  was  afraid  of  Mealy-mealy ;  that  he 
admitted.  But  at  the  same  time  it  was  quite  clear 


46      The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

that  Mealy-mealy  was  afraid  of  him.  He  was  excited 
and  more  than  a  little  gratified.  What  a  book  he  could 
write!  Should  he  call  it  "Cannibal-Bound  on 
O-pip-ee,"  or,  "Cannibals  Who  have  almost  Eaten  Me"  ? 

Tiki  Tiu's  schooner  would  be  coming  for  him  very 
soon  now, — he'd  lost  track  of  the  exact  time, — and 
he  would  be  almost  reluctant  to  leave  the  isle.  Almost. 

Mr.  Pottle  had  another  glimpse  of  a  cannibal  next 
day.  Toward  evening  he  stole  out  to  pick  some  supper 
from  a  breadfruit-tree  not  far  from  his  cave,  a  tree 
which  produced  particularly  palatable  mei  (or  bread- 
fruit). 

He  drew  his  pareu  tight  around  him  and  slipped 
through  the  bushes;  as  he  neared  the  tree  he  saw  an- 
other figure  approaching  it  with  equal  stealth  from  the 
opposite  direction;  the  setting  sun  was  reflected  from 
the  burnished  brown  of  the  savage's  shoulders.  At  the 
same  time  Mr.  Pottle  spied  the  man,  the  man  spied 
him.  The  savage  stopped  short,  wheeled  about,  and  tore 
back  in  the  direction  from  which  he  had  come.  Mr. 
Pottle  did  not  get  a  good  look  at  his  face,  but  he  ran 
uncommonly  like  Mealy-mealy. 

§6 

Mr.  Pottle  thought  it  best  not  to  climb  the  we^tree 
that  evening;  he  returned  hastily  to  his  cave,  and  fin- 
ished up  the  breakfast  cocoanut. 

Over  a  pipe  he  thought.  He  was  pleased,  thrilled  by 
his  sight  of  a  cannibal;  but  he  was  not  wholly  satis- 
fied. He  had  thought  it  would  be  enough  for  him  to  get 
one  fleeting  glimpse  of  an  undoubted  man-eater  in  his 
native  state,  but  it  wasn't.  Before  he  left  the  Isle  of 
he  wanted  to  see  the  whole  tribe  in  a  wild 


Mr.  Pottle  and  the  Cannibals     47 

dance  about  a  bubbling  pot.  Tiki  Tiu's  schooner  might 
come  on  the  morrow.  He  must  act. 

He  crept  out  of  the  cave  and  stood  in  the  moon- 
light, breathing  the  perfume  of  the  jungle,  feeling  the 
cool  night  air,  hearing  the  mellow  notes  of  the  Poly- 
nesian nightingale.  Adventure  beckoned  to  him.  He 
started  in  the  direction  Mealy-mealy  had  run. 

At  first  he  progressed  on  tiptoes,  then  he  sank  to  all 
fours,  and  crawled  along  slowly,  pig-wise.  On,  on  he 
went;  he  must  have  crept  more  than  a  mile  when  a 
sound  stopped  him — a  sound  he  had  heard  before.  It 
was  faint,  yet  it  seemed  near:  it  was  the  sound  of 
some  primitive  musical  instrument  blending  with  the 
low  notes  of  a  tribal  chant.  It  seemed  to  come  from 
a  sheltered  hollow  not  two  dozen  yards  ahead. 

He  crouched  down  among  the  ferns  and  listened. 
The  chant  was  crooned  softly  in  a  deep  voice,  and  to  the 
straining  ears  of  Mr.  Pottle  it  seemed  vaguely  familiar, 
like  a  song  heard  in  dreams.  The  words  came  through 
the  thick  tangle  of  jungle  weeds: 

"Eeet  slon  ay  a  teep  a  ari." 

Mr.  Pottle,  fascinated,  wiggled  forward  to  get  a  look 
at  the  tribe.  Like  a  snake,  he  made  his  tortuous  ap- 
proach. The  singing  continued;  he  saw  a  faint  glow 
through  the  foliage — the  campfire.  He  eased  himself 
to  the  crest  of  a  little  hummock,  pushed  aside  a  great 
fern  leaf  and  looked. 

Sitting  comfortably  in  a  steamer-chair  was  Mealy- 
mealy.  In  his  big  brown  hands  was  a  shiny  banjo  at 
which  he  plucked  gently.  Near  his  elbow  food  with 
a  familiar  smell  bubbled  in  an  aluminum  dish  over  a 
trim  canned-heat  outfit;  an  empty  baked-bean  can  with 


48      The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

a  gaudy  label  lay  beside  it.  From  time  to  time  Mealy- 
mealy  glanced  idly  at  a  pink  periodical  popular  in 
American  barber-stops.  The  song  he  sang  to  himself 
burst  intelligibly  on  Mr.  Pottle's  ears — 

"It's  a  long  way  to  Tipperary." 

Mealy-mealy  stopped ;  his  eye  had  fallen  on  the  star- 
ing eyes  of  Mr.  Pottle.  He  caught  up  his  ax  and  was 
about  to  swing  it  when  Mr.  Pottle  stood  up,  stepped 
into  the  circle  of  light,  pointed  an  accusing  finger  at 
Mealy-mealy  and  said: 

"Are  you  a  cannibal  ?" 

Mealy-mealy 's  ax  and  jaw  dropped. 

"What  the  devil  are  you?"  he  sputtered  in  perfect 
American. 

"I'm  a  barber  from  Ohio,"  said  Mr.  Pottle. 

Mealy-mealy  emitted  a  sudden  whooping  roar  of 
laughter. 

"So  am  I,"  he  said. 

Mr.  Pottle  collapsed  limply  into  the  steamer-chair. 

"What's  your  name  ?"  he  asked  in  a  weak  voice. 

"Bert  Lee,  head  barber  at  the  Schmidt  House,  Bucy- 
rus,  Ohio,"  said  the  big  man.  He  slapped  his  fat, 
bare  chest.  "Me — Lee,"  he  said,  and  laughed  till  the 
jungle  echoed. 

"Did  you  read  'Green  Isles,  Brown  Man-Eaters, 
and  a  White  Man'  ?"  asked  Mr.  Pottle,  feebly. 

"Yes." 

"I'd  like  to  meet  the  man  who  wrote  it,"  said  Mr. 
Pottle. 


Ill:  Mr.  Pottle  and  Culture 


Ill:  Mr.  Pottle  and  Culture 

OUT  of  the  bathtub,  rubicund  and  rotund,  stepped 
Mr.  Ambrose  Pottle.  He  anointed  his  hair 
with  sweet  spirits  of  lilac  and  dusted  his 
anatomy  with  crushed  rosebud  talcum.  He  donned  a 
virgin  union  suit ;  a  pair  of  socks,  silk  where  it  showed ; 
ultra  low  shoes;  white-flannel  trousers,  warm  from 
the  tailor's  goose;  a  creamy  silk  shirt;  an  impeccable 
blue  coat ;  a  gala  tie,  perfect  after  five  tyings ;  and  then 
went  forth  into  the  spring-scented  eventide  to  pay  a 
call  on  Mrs.  Blossom  Gallup. 

He  approached  her  new-art  bungalow  as  one  might 
a  shrine,  with  diffident  steps  and  hesitant  heart,  but 
with  delicious  tinglings  radiating  from  his  spinal  cord. 
Only  the  ballast  of  a  three-pound  box  of  Choc-O-late 
Cutties  under  his  arm  kept  him  on  earth.  He  was  in 
love. 

To  be  in  love  for  the  first  time  at  twenty  is  passably 
thrilling;  but  to  be  in  love  for  the  first  time  at  thirty- 
six  is  exquisitely  excruciating. 

Mr.  Pottle  found  Mrs.  Gallup  in  her  living  room,  a 
basket  of  undarned  stockings  on  her  lap.  With  a  pretty 
show  of  confusion  and  many  embarrassed  murmur- 
ings  she  thrust  them  behind  the  piano,  he  protesting 
that  this  intimate  domesticity  delighted  him. 

She  sank  back  with  a  little  sigh  into  a  gay-chintzed 
wicker  chair,  and  the  rosy  light  from  a  tall  piano  lamp 

Si 


52      The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

fell  gently  on  her  high-piled  golden  hair,  her  surprised 
blue  eyes,  and  the  ripe,  generous  outlines  of  her  figure. 
To  Mr.  Pottle  she  was  a  dream  of  loveliness,  a  poem, 
an  idyl.  He  would  have  given  worlds,  solar  systems 
to  have  been  able  to  tell  her  so.  But  he  couldn't.  He 
couldn't  find  the  words,  for,  like  many  another  sterling 
character  in  the  barbers'  supply  business,  he  was  not 
eloquent;  he  did  not  speak  with  the  fluent  ease,  the  mas- 
terful flow  that  comes,  one  sees  it  often  said,  from 
twenty-one  minutes  a  day  of  communion  with  the  great 
minds  of  all  time.  His  communings  had  been  largely 
with  boss  barbers ;  with  them  he  was  cheery  and  chatty. 
But  Mrs.  Gallup  and  her  intellectual  interests  were  a 
world  removed  from  things  tonsorial ;  in  her  presence  he 
was  tongue-tied  as  an  oyster. 

Mr.  Pottle's  worshiping  eye  roved  from  the  lady  to 
her  library,  and  his  good-hearted  face  showed  tiny 
furrows  of  despair ;  an  array  of  fat  crisp  books  in  shiny 
new  bindings  stared  at  him:  Twenty-one  Minutes' 
Daily  Communion  With  the  Master  Minds;  Capsule 
Chats  on  Poets,  Philosophers,  Painters,  Novelists,  In- 
terior Decorators ;  Culture  for  the  Busy  Man,  six  vol- 
umes, half  calf ;  How  to  Build  Up  a  Background ;  Talk 
Tips;  YOU,  Too,  Can  Be  Interesting;  Sixty  Square 
Feet  of  Self-Culture — and  a  score  more.  "Culture" — 
always  that  wretched  word ! 

"Are  you  fond  of  reading,  Mr.  Pottle?"  asked  Mrs. 
Gallup,  popping  a  Choc-O-late  RTuttie  into  her  demure 
mouth  with  a  daintiness  almost  ethereal. 

"Love  it,"  he  answered  promptly. 

"Who  is  your  favorite  poet  ?" 

"S-Shakspere,"  he  ventured  desperately. 

"He's    mine,    too."      Mr.    Pottle    breathed    easier. 


Mr.  Pottle  and  Culture  53 

"But,"  she  added,  "I  think  Longfellow  is  sweet,  don't 
you?" 

"Very  sweet,"  agreed  Mr.  Pottle. 

She  smiled  at  him  with  a  sad,  shy  confidence. 

"He  did  not  understand,"  she  said. 

She  nodded  her  blonde  head  toward  an  enlarged 
picture  of  the  late  Mr.  Gallup,  in  the  full  regalia  of 
Past  Grand  Master  of  the  Beneficent  Order  of  Beavers. 

"Didn't  he  care  for — er — literature?"  asked  Mr. 
Pottle. 

"He  despised  it,"  she  replied.  "He  was  wrapped 
up  in  the  hay-and-feed  business.  He  began  to  talk 
about  oats  and  chicken  gravel  on  our  honeymoon." 

Mr.  Pottle  made  a  sympathetic  noise. 

"In  our  six  years  of  married  life,"  she  went  on,  "he 
talked  of  nothing  but  duck  fodder,  carload  lots,  trade 
discounts,  selling  points,  bran,  turnover " 

How  futile,  how  inadequate  seem  mere  words  in  some 
situations.  Mr.  Pottle  said  nothing;  timidly  he  took 
her  hand  in  his ;  she  did  not  draw  it  away. 

"And  he  only  shaved  on  Saturday  nights,"  she  said. 

Mr.  Pottle's  free  hand  went  to  his  own  face,  smooth 
as  steel  and  art  could  make  it. 

"Blossom,"  he  began  huskily,  "have  you  ever  thought 
of  marrying  again  ?" 

"I  have,"  she  answered,  blushing — his  hand  on  hers 
tightened — "and  I  haven't,"  she  finished. 

"Oh,  Blossom "  he  began  once  more. 

"If  I  do  marry  again,"  she  interrupted,  "it  will  be 
a  literary  man." 

"A  literary  man  ?"  His  tone  was  aghast.  "A  writ- 
ing fella?" 

"Oh,  not  necessarily  a  writer,"  she  said.  "They 
usually  live  in  garrets,  and  I  shouldn't  like  that.  I 


54     The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

mean  a  man  who  has  read  all  sorts  of  books,  and  who 
can  talk  about  all  sorts  of  things." 

"Blossom" — Mr.  Pottle's  voice  was  humble — "I'm 
not  what  you  might  call " 

There  was  a  sound  of  clumping  feet  on  the  porch 
outside.  Mrs.  Gallup  started  up. 

"Oh,  that  must  be  him  now !"  she  cried. 

"Him?    Who?" 

"Why,  Mr.  Deeley." 

"Who's  he?"  queried  Mr.  Pottle. 

"Oh,  I  forgot  to  tell  you!  He  said  he  might  call 
to-night.  Such  a  nice  man !  I  met  him  over  in  Xenia 
last  week.  Such  a  brilliant  conversationalist.  I  know 
you'll  like  each  other." 

She  hastened  to  answer  the  doorbell;  Mr.  Pottle  sat 
moodily  in  his  chair,  not  at  all  sure  he'd  like  Mr. 
Deeley. 

The  brilliant  conversationalist  burst  into  the  room 
breezily,  confidently.  He  was  slightly  smaller  than  a 
load  of  hay  in  his  belted  suit  of  ecru  pongee ;  he  wore  a 
satisfied  air  and  a  pleased  mustache. 

"Meet  Mr.  Pottle,"  said  Mrs.  Gallup. 

"What  name?"  asked  Mr.  Deeley.  His  voice  was 
high,  sweet  and  loud ;  his  handshake  was  a  knuckle  pul- 
verizer. 

"Pottle,"  said  the  owner  of  that  name. 

"I  beg  pardon  ?"  said  Mr.  Deeley. 

"Pottle,"  said  Mr.  Pottle  more  loudly. 

"Sorry,"  said  Mr.  Deeley  affably,  "but  it  sounds  just 
like  'Pottle'  to  me." 

"That's  what  it  is,"  said  Mr.  Pottle  with  dignity. 

Mr.  Deeley  laughed  a  loud  tittering  laugh. 

"Oh,  well,"  he  remarked  genially,  "you  can't  help 
that.  We're  born  with  our  names,  but" — he  bestowed 


Mr.  Pottle  and  Culture  55 

a  dazzling  smile  on  Mrs.  Gallup — "we  pick  our  own 
teeth." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Deeley,"  she  cried,  "you  do  say  the  most 
ridiculously  witty  things !" 

Mr.  Pottle  felt  a  concrete  lump  forming  in  his  bosom. 

Mr.  Deeley  addressed  him  tolerantly.  "What  line 
are  you  in,  Mr.  Bottle  ?"  he  asked. 

"Barbers'  supplies,"  admitted  Mr.  Pottle. 

"Ah,  yes.  Barbers'  supplies.  How  interesting,"  said 
Mr.  Deeley.  "Climbing  the  lather  of  success,  eh  ?" 

Mr.  Pottle  did  not  join  in  the  merriment. 

"What  line  are  you  in?"  he  asked.  He  prayed  that 
Mr.  Deeley  would  say  "Shoes,"  for  by  a  happy  inspira- 
tion he  was  prepared  to  counter  with,  "Ah,  starting 
at  the  bottom,"  and  thus  split  honors  with  the  Xenian. 

But  Mr.  Deeley  did  not  say  "Shoes."  He  said  "Lit- 
erature." Mrs.  Gallup  beamed. 

"Oh,  are  you,  Mr.  Deeley?  How  perfectly  thrill- 
ing !"  she  said  rapturously.  "I  didn't  know  that." 

"Oh,  yes  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Deeley.  He  changed  the 
subject  by  turning  to  Mr.  Pottle.  "By  the  way,  Mr. 
Poodle,  are  you  interested  in  Abyssinia  ?"  he  inquired. 

"Why,  no — that  is,  not  particularly,"  confessed  Mr. 
Pottle.  He  looked  toward  her  who  had  quickened  his 
pulse,  but  her  eyes  were  fastened  on  Mr.  Deeley. 

"I'm  surprised  to  hear  you  say  that,"  said  Mr.  Dee-' 
ley.  "A  most  interesting  place,  Abyssinia — rather  a 
specialty  of  mine." 

He  threw  one  plump  leg  over  the  other  and  leaned 
back  comfortably. 

"Abyssinia,"  he  went  on  in  his  high  voice,  "is  an 
inland  country  situated  by  the  Eed  Sea  between  5°  and 
15°  north  latitude,  and  35°  and  42°  east  longitude. 
Its  area  is  351,019  square  miles.  Its  population  is 


56     The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

4,501,477.  It  includes  Shoa,  Kaffa,  Gallaland  and 
Central  Somaliland.  Its  towns  include  Adis-Ababa, 
Adowa,  Adigrat,  Aliu- Amber,  Debra-Derhan  and  Bon- 
ger.  It  produces  coffee,  salt  and  gold.  The  inhabit- 
ants are  morally  very  lax.  Indeed,  polygamy  is  a  com- 
mon practice,  and " 

"Polly  Gammy?"  cried  Mrs.  Gallup  in  imitation  of 
Mr.  Deeley's  pronunciation.  "Oh,  what  is  that?" 

Mr.  Deeley  smiled  blandly. 

"I  think,"  he  said,  "that  it  is  hardly  the  sort  of  thing 
I  care  to  discuss  in — er — mixed  company." 

He  helped  himself  to  three  of  the  Choc-0-late  Nut- 
ties. 

"That  reminds  me,"  he  said,  "of  abbreviations." 

"Abbreviations  ?"  Mrs.  Gallup  looked  her  interest. 

"The  world,"  observed  Mr.  Deeley,  "is  full  of  them. 
For  example,  Mr.  Puttie,  do  you  know  what  E.  W.  D. 
G.  M.  stands  for?" 

"No"  answered  Mr.  Pottle  glumly. 

"It  stands  for  Right  Worshipful  Deputy  Grand  Mas- 
ter," informed  Mr.  Deeley.  "Do  you  know  what  ~N.  U. 
T.  stands  for?" 

"I  know  what  it  spells,"  said  Mr.  Pottle  pointedly. 

"You  ought  to,"  said  Mr.  Deeley,  letting  off  his 
laugh.  "But  we  were  discussing  abbreviations.  Since 
you  don't  seem  very  well  informed  on  this  point" — 
he  shot  a  smile  at  Mrs.  Gallup — "I'll  tell  you  that 
N.  U.  T.  stands  for  National  Union  of  Teachers,  just 
as  M.  F.  H.  stands  for  Master  of  Fox  Hounds,  and 
M.  I.  C.  E.  stands  for  Member  of  Institute  of  Civil 
Engineers,  and  A.  O.  H.  stands  for— 

"Oh,  Mr.  Deeley,  how  perfectly  thrilling!"  Mrs. 
Gallup  spoke;  Mr.  Pottle  writhed;  Mr.  Deeley  smiled 
complacently,  and  went  on. 


Mr.  Pottle  and  Culture  57 

"I  could  go  on  indefinitely;  abbreviations  are  rather 
a  specialty  of  mine." 

It  developed  that  Mr.  Deeley  had  many  specialties. 

"Are  you  aware,"  he  asked,  focusing  his  gaze  on 
Mr.  Pottle,  "that  there  is  acid  in  this  cherry  ?"  He  held 
aloft  a  candied  cherry  which  he  had  deftly  exhumed 
from  a  Choc-O-late  Nuttie. 

"My  goodness !"  cried  Mrs.  Gallup.  "Will  it  poison 
us  ?  I've  eaten  six." 

"My  dear  lady" — there  was  a  world  of  tender  reas- 
surance in  Mr.  Deeley's  tone — "only  the  uninformed 
regard  all  acids  as  poisonous.  There  are  acids  and 
acids.  I've  taken  a  rather  special  interest  in  them. 
Let's  see — there  are  many  kinds — acetic,  benzoic,  citric, 
gallic,  lactic,  malic,  oxalic,  palmitic,  picric — but  why 
go  on?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Pottle;  "why?" 

"Do  not  interrupt,  Mr.  Pottle,  if  you  please,"  said 
Mrs.  Gallup  severely.  "I'm  sure  what  Mr.  Deeley 
says  interests  me  immensely.  Go  on,  Mr.  Deeley." 

"Thank  you,  Mrs.  Gallup ;  thank  you,"  said  the  bril- 
liant conversationalist.  "But  don't  you  think  alligators 
are  more  interesting  than  acids  ?" 

"You  know  about  so  many  interesting  things,"  she 
smiled.  Mr.  Pottle's  very  soul  began  to  curdle. 

"Alligators  are  rather  a  specialty  of  mine,"  remarked 
Mr.  Deeley.  "Fascinating  little  brutes,  I  think.  You 
know  alligators,  Mrs.  Gallup  ?" 

"Stuffed,"  said  the  lady. 

"Ah,  to  be  sure,"  he  said.  "Perhaps,  then,  you  do 
not  realize  that  the  alligator  is  of  the  family  Croco- 
dilidoe  and  the  order  Eusuchia." 

"No?  You  don't  tell  me?"  Mrs.  Gallup's  tone  was 
almost  reverent. 


58      The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

"Yes,"  continued  Mr.  Deeley,  in  the  voice  of  a  lec- 
turer, "there  are  two  kinds  of  alligators — the  Indus, 
found  in  the  Mississippi ;  and  the  sinensis,  in  the  Yang- 
tse-Kiang.  It  differs  from  the  caiman  by  having  a  bony 
septum  between  its  nostrils,  and  its  ventral  scutes  are 
thinly,  if  at  all,  ossified.  It  is  carnivorous  and  pis- 
civorous  " 

"How  fascinating!"  Mrs.  Gallup  had  edged  her 
chair  nearer  the  speaker.  "What  does  that  mean  ?" 

"It  means,"  said  Mr.  Deeley,  "that  they  eat  corn 
and  pigs." 

"The  strong  tail  of  the  alligator,"  he  flowed  on  easily, 
"by  a  lashing  movement  assists  it  in  swimming,  during 
which  exercise  it  emits  a  loud  bellowing." 

"Do  alligators  bellow  ?"  asked  Mr.  Pottle  with  open 
skepticism. 

"I  wish  I  had  a  dollar  for  every  time  I've  heard  them 
bellow,"  answered  Mr.  Deeley  pugnaciously.  "Appar- 
ently, Mr.  Puddle,  you  are  not  familiar  with  the  works 
of  Ahn." 

Mr.  Pottle  maintained  a  blank  black  silence. 

"Oh,  who  was  he  ?"  put  in  Mrs.  Gallup. 

"Johann  Franz  Ahn,  born  1Y96,  died  1865,  was  an 
educationalist,"  said  Mr.  Deeley  in  the  voice  of  au- 
thority. "His  chief  work,  of  which  I  am  very  fond,  is 
a  volume  entitled,  'Praktischer  Lehrgang  zur  Schnellen 
und  Leichten  Erlergung  der  Franzosischen  Sprache.' 
You've  read  it,  perhaps,  Mr.  Pobble  ?" 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Pottle  miserably.  "I  can't  say  I 
ever  have."  He  felt  that  his  case  grew  worse  with  every 
minute.  He  rose.  "I  guess  I'd  better  be  going,"  he 
said.  Mrs.  Gallup  made  no  attempt  to  detain  him. 

As  he  left  her  presence  with  slow  steps  and  a  heart 
of  lead  he  heard  the  high  voice  of  Mr.  Deeley  saying,, 


Mr.  Pottle  and  Culture          59 

"Now,  take  alcohol :  That's  rather  a  specialty  of  mine. 
Alcohol  is  a  term  applied  to  a  group  of  organic  sub- 
stances, including  methyl,  ethyl,  propyl,  butyl, 
amyl " 

Back  in  his  bachelor  home  the  heartsick  Mr.  Pottle 
flung  his  new  tie  into  a  corner,  slammed  his  ultra  shoes 
on  the  floor,  and  tossed  his  trousers,  heedless  of  rum- 
pling, at  a  chair,  sat  down,  head  in  hand,  and  thought  of 
a  watery  grave. 

For  that  he  could  not  hope  to  compete  conversation- 
ally or  otherwise  with  the  literary  Deeley  of  Xenia  was 
all  too  apparent.  Mrs.  Gallup — he  had  called  her  Blos- 
som but  a  few  brief  hours  ago — said  she  wanted  a  lit- 
erary man,  and  here  was  one  literary  to  his  manicured 
finger  tips. 

He  would  not  give  up.  Pottles  are  made  of  stern 
stuff.  Reason  told  him  his  cause  was  hopeless,  but  his 
heart  told  him  to  fight  to  the  last.  He  obeyed  his  heart. 

Arraying  himself  in  his  finest,  three  nights  later  he 
went  to  call  on  Mrs.  Gallup,  a  five-pound  box  of  Choc- 
0-late  JsTutties  hugged  nervously  to  his  silk-shirted 
bosom. 

A  maid  admitted  him.  He  heard  in  the  living  room 
a  familiar  high  masculine  voice  that  made  his  fists 
double  up.  It  was  saying,  "Aristotle,  the  Greek  phi- 
losopher, was  born  at  Stagira  in  384  B.  C.  and " 

Mr.  Deeley  paused  to  greet  Mr.  Pottle  casually; 
Mrs.  Gallup  took  the  candy  with  only  conventional 
words  of  appreciation,  and  turned  at  once  to  listen,  dis- 
ciple-like, to  the  discourses  of  the  sage  from  Xenia,  who 
for  the  rest  of  the  evening  held  the  center  of  the  stage, 
absorbed  every  beam  of  the  calcium,  and  dispensed  fact 
and  fancy  about  a  wide  variety  of  things.  He  was  a 
man  with  many  and  curious  specialties.  Mrs.  Gallup 


60     The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

was  a  willing,  Mr.  Pottle  a  most  unwilling  listener. 

At  eleven  Mr.  Pottle  went  home,  having  uttered  but 
two  words  all  evening,  and  those  monosyllables.  He  left 
Mr.  Deeley  holding  forth  in  detail  on  the  science  of 
astronomy,  with  side  glances  at  astrology  and  ancestor- 
worship. 

Mr.  Pottle's  heart  was  too  full  for  sleep.  Indeed, 
as  he  walked  in  the  moonlight  through  Eastman  Park, 
it  was  with  the  partially  formed  intent  of  flinging  him- 
self in  among  the  swans  that  slept  on  the  artificial 
lake. 

His  mind  went  back  to  the  conversation  of  Mr.  Deeley 
in  Mrs.  Gallup's  salon.  She  had  been  Blossom  to  him 
once,  but  now — this  loudly  learned  stranger !  Mr.  Pot- 
tle stopped  suddenly  and  sat  down  sharply  on  a  park 
bench.  The  topics  on  which  Mr.  Deeley  had  conversed 
so  fluently  passed  in  an  orderly  array  before  his  mind : 
Apes,  acoustics,  angels,  Apollo,  adders,  albumen,  auks, 

Alexander  the  Great,  anarchy,  adenoids He  had 

it !  A  light,  bright  as  the  sun  at  noon,  dawned  on  Mr. 
Pottle. 

Next  morning  when  the  public  library  opened,  Mr. 
Pottle  was  waiting  at  the  door. 

A  feverish  week  rushed  by  in  Mr.  Pottle's  life. 

"We'll  be  having  to  charge  that  little  man  with  the 
bashful  grin,  rent  or  storage  or  something,"  said  Miss 
Merk,  the  seventh  assistant  librarian,  to  Miss  Heaslip, 
the  ninth  assistant  librarian. 

Sunday  night  firm  determined  steps  took  Mr.  Pottle 
to  the  bungalow  of  Mrs.  Gallup.  He  heard  Mr.  Dee- 
ley's  sweet  resonant  voice  in  the  living  room.  He  smiled 
grimly. 

"I  was  just  telling  Blossom  about  a  curious  little 
animal  I  take  rather  a  special  interest  in,"  began  the 


Mr.  Pottle  and  Culture          61 

man  from  Xenia,  with  a  condescending  nod  to  Mr.  Pot- 
tle. 

Mr.  Pottle  checked  the  frown  that  had  started  to 
gather  at  "Blossom,"  and  asked  politely,  "And  what  is 
the  beast's  name?" 

"The  aard-vark,"  replied  Mr.  Deeley.    "He  is " 

"The  Cape  ant  bear,"  finished  Mr.  Pottle,  "or  earth 
pig.  He  lives  on  ants,  burrows  rapidly,  and  can  be 
easily  killed  by  a  smart  blow  on  his  sensitive  snout." 

Mr.  Deeley  stared;  Mrs.  Gallup  stared;  Mr.  Pottle 
sailed  on  serenely. 

"A  very  interesting  beast,  the  aard-vark.  But  to  my 
mind  not  so  interesting  as  the  long-nosed  bandicoot. 
You  know  the  long-nosed  bandicoot,  I  presume,  Mr. 
Deeley?" 

"Well,  not  under  that  name,"  retorted  the  Xenia 
sage.  "You  don't  mean  antelope  ?" 

"By  no  means,"  said  Mr.  Pottle  with  a  superior  smile. 
"I  said  bandicoot — B-a-n-d-i-coot.  He  is  a  Peramelidce 
of  the  Marsupial  family,  meaning  he  carries  his  young 
in  a  pouch  like  a  kangaroo." 

"How  cute !"  murmured  Mrs.  Gallup. 

"There  are  bandicoots  and  bandicoots,"  pursued  Mr. 
Pottle;  "the  Peragale,  or  rabbit  bandicoot;  the  Nasuta, 
or  long-nosed  bandicoot ;  the  Mysouros,  or  saddle-backed 
bandicoot;  the  Clioeropus,  or  pig-footed  bandicoot; 
and " 

"Speaking  of  antelopes "  Mr.  Deeley  interrupted 

loudly. 

"By  all  means!"  said  Mr.  Pottle  still  more  loudly. 
"I've  always  taken  a  special  interest  in  antelopes.  Let's 
see  now — the  antelope  family  includes  the  gnus,  elands, 
hartebeests,  addax,  klipspringers,  chamois,  gazelles, 
chirus,  pallas,  saigas,  nilgais,  koodoos — pretty  name 


62      The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlppn 

that,  isn't  it,  Blossom — the  blessboks,  duikerboks,  bone- 
boks,  gemsboks,  steinboks " 

He  saw  that  the  bright  blue  eyes  of  the  lady  of  his 
dreams  were  fastened  on  him.  He  turned  toward  Mr. 
Deeley. 

"You're  familiar  with  Bambara,  aren't  you?"  he 
asked. 

"I  beg  pardon?"  The  brilliant  conversationalist 
seemed  a  little  confused.  "Did  you  say  Arabia?  I 
should  say  I  do  know  Arabia.  Population  5,078,441; 
area " 

"One  million,  two  hundred  and  twenty-two  thousand 
square  miles,"  finished  Mr.  Pottle.  "No,  I  did  not  say 
Arabia;  I  said  Bambara.  B-a-m-b-a-r-a." 

"Oh,  Bambara,"  said  Mr.  Deeley  feebly;  his  assur- 
ance seemed  to  crumple. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Gallup.  "Do  tell  us  about  Bam- 
bara ;  such  an  intriguing  name." 

"It  is  a  country  in  Western  Africa,"  Mr.  Pottle 
tossed  off  grandly,  "with  a  population  of  2,004,737, 
made  up  of  Negroes,  Mandingoes  and  Foulahs.  Its 
principal  products  are  rice,  maize,  cotton,  millet,  yams, 
pistachio  nuts,  French  beans,  watermelons,  onions,  to- 
bacco, indigo,  tamarinds,  lotuses,  sheep,  horses,  alliga- 
tors, pelicans,  turtles,  egrets,  teals  and  Barbary  ducks." 

"Oh,  how  interesting!  Do  go  on,  Mr.  Pottle."  It 
was  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Gallup;  to  Mr.  Pottle  it  seemed 
that  there  was  a  tender  note  in  it. 

"Bambara  reminds  me  of  baboons,"  he  went  on 
loudly  and  rapidly,  checking  an  incipient  remark  from 
Mr.  Deeley.  "Baboons,  you  know,  are  Cynocephali  or 
dog-headed  monkeys;  the  species  includes  drills,  man- 
drills, sphinx,  chacma  and  hamadryas.  Most  baboons 
have  ischial  callosities " 


Mr.  Pottle  and  Culture  63 

"Oh,  what  do  they  do  with  them?"  cried  wide-eyed 
Mrs.  Gallup. 

"They — er — sit  on  them/'  answered  Mr.  Pottle. 

"I  don't  helieve  it,"  Mr.  Deeley  challenged. 

Mr.  Pottle  froze  him  with  a  look.  "Evidently,"  he 
said,  "you,  Mr.  Deeley,  are  not  familiar  with  the  works 
of  Dr.  Oskar  Baumann,  author  of  'Afrikanische  Skiz- 
zen.'  Are  you  ?" 

"I've  glanced  through  it,"  said  Mr.  Deeley. 

"Then  you  don't  remember  what  he  says  on  Page 
489  ?" 

"Can't  say  that  I  do,"  mumbled  Mr.  Deeley. 

"And  you  appear  unfamiliar  with  the  works  of  Hosea 
Ballou." 

"Who?" 

"Hosea  Ballou." 

"I  doubt  if  there  is  such  a  person,"  said  Mr.  Deeley 
stiffly.  He  did  not  appear  to  be  enjoying  himself. 

"Oh,  you  do,  do  you?"  retorted  Mr.  Pottle.  "Sup- 
pose you  look  him  up  in  your  encyclopedia — if,"  he 
added  with  crushing  emphasis — "if  you  have  one. 
You'll  find  that  Hosea  Ballou  was  born  in  1771, 
founded  the  Trumpet  Magazine,  the  Universalist  Ex- 
positor, the  Universalist  Quarterly  Keview,  and  wrote 
Notes  on  the  Parables." 

"What  has  that  to  do  with  baboons  ?"  demanded  Mr. 
Deeley. 

"A  lot  more  than  you  think,"  was  Mr.  Pottle's  cryptic 
answer.  He  turned  from  the  Xenian  with  a  shrug  of 
dismissal,  and  smiled  upon  Mrs.  Gallup. 

"Don't  you  think,  Blossom,"  he  said,  "that  Babylonia 
is  a  fascinating  country  ?" 

"Oh,  very,"  she  smiled  back  at  him.  "I  dote  on 
Babylonia." 


64      The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

"Perhaps,"  suggested  Mr.  Pottle,  "Mr.  Deeley  will 
be  good  enough  to  tell  us  all  about  it." 

Mr.  Deeley  looked  extremely  uncomfortable. 

"Babylonia — let's  see  now — well,  it  just  happens  that 
Babylonia  is  not  one  of  my  specialties." 

"Well,  tell  us  about  Baluchistan,  then,"  suggested 
Mr.  Pottle, 

"Yes,  do!"  echoed  Mrs.  Gallup. 

"I've  forgotten  about  it,"  answered  the  brilliant  con- 
versationalist sullenly. 

"Well,  tell  us  about  Beethoven,  then,"  pursued  Mr. 
Pottle  relentlessly. 

"I  never  was  there,"  growled  Mr.  Deeley.  "Say, 
when  does  the  next  trolley  leave  for  Xenia  ?" 

"In  seven  minutes,"  answered  Mrs.  Gallup  coldly. 
"You've  just  got  time  to  catch  it." 

The  bungalow's  front  door  snapped  at  the  heels  of 
the  departing  sage  from  Xenia, 

Mr.  Pottle  hitched  his  chair  close  to  the  sofa  where 
Mrs.  Gallup  sat. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Pottle,"  she  said  softly,  "do  talk  some 
more !  I  just  love  to  hear  you.  You  surprised  me.  I 
didn't  realize  you  were  such  a  well-read  man." 

Mr.  Pottle  looked  into  her  wide  blue  eyes. 

"I'm  not,"  he  said.    "I  was  bluffing." 

"Bluffing?" 

"Yes,"  he  said;  "and  so  was  your  friend  from  Xenia. 
He's  no  more  in  the  literary  line  than  I  am.  His 
job  is  selling  a  book  called  'Hog  Culture.'  " 

"But  he  talks  so  well "  began  Mrs.  Gallup. 

"Only  about  things  that  begin  with  'A,'  "  said  Mr. 
Pottle.  "He  memorized  everything  in  the  encyclopedia 
under  'A.'  I  simply  went  him  one  better.  I  memo- 
rized all  of  'A/  and  all  of  'B'  too." 


Mr.  Pottle  and  Culture          65 

"Oh,  the  deceitful  wretch!" 

"I'm  sorry,  Blossom.  Can  you  forgive  me?"  he 
pleaded.  "I  did  it  because " 

She  interrupted  him  gently. 

"I  know,"  she  said,  smiling.  "You  did  it  for  me.  I 
wasn't  calling  you  a  wretch,  Ambrose." 

He  found  himself  on  the  sofa  beside  her,  his  arm 
about  her. 

"What  I  really  want,"  she  confessed  with  a  happy 
sigh,  "is  a  good  strong  man  to  take  care  of  me." 

"We'll  go  through  the  rest  of  the  encyclopedia  to- 
gether, dearest,"  said  Mr.  Pottle. 


IV:   Mr.  Pottle  and  the  One  Man 
Dog 


IV:  Mr.  Pottle  and  the  One 
Man  Dog 

AMBROSE!     Ambrose  dear!"     The  new  Mrs. 

jLM    Pottle  put  down  the  book  she  was  reading — 
Volume  Dec  to  Erd  of  the  encyclopedia. 

"Yes,  Blossom  dear."  Mr.  Pottle's  tone  was  fraught 
with  the  tender  solicitude  of  the  recently  wed.  He 
looked  up  from  his  book — Volume  Ode  to  Pay  of  the 
encyclopedia. 

"Ambrose,  we  must  get  a  dog!" 

"A  dog,  darling?" 

His  tone  was  still  tender  but  a  thought  lacking  in 
warmth.  His  smile,  he  hoped,  conveyed  the  impression 
that  while  he  utterly  approved  of  Blossom,  herself,  per- 
sonally, her  current  idea  struck  no  responsive  chord  in 
his  bosom. 

"Yes,  a  dog." 

She  sighed  as  she  gazed  at  a  large  framed  steel- 
engraving  of  Landseer's  St.  Bernards  that  occupied  a 
space  on  the  wall  until  recently  tenanted  by  a  crayon 
enlargement  of  her  first  husband  in  his  lodge  regalia. 

"Such  noble  creatures,"  she  sighed.  "So  intelligent 
And  so  loyal." 

"In  the  books  they  are,"  murmured  Mr.  Pottla 

"Oh,  Ambrose,"  she  protested  with  a  pout.  "How 
can  you  say  such  a  thing  ?  Just  look  at  their  big  eyes, 
BO  full  of  soul.  "What  magnificent  animals!  So  full 

of  understanding  and  fidelity  and — and " 

69 


70      The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

"Fleas  ?"  suggested  Mr.  Pottle. 

Her  glance  was  glacial. 

"Ambrose,  you  are  positively  cruel,"  she  said,  tiny, 
injured  tears  gathering  in  her  wide  blue  eyes.  He  was 
instantly  penitent. 

"Forgive  me,  dear,"  he  begged.  "I  forgot.  In  the 
books  they  don't  have  'em,  do  they  ?  You  see,  precious, 
I  don't  take  as  much  stock  in  books  as  I  used  to.  I've 
been  fooled  so  often." 

"They're  lovely  books,"  said  Mrs.  Pottle,  somewhat 
mollified.  "You  said  yourself  that  you  adore  dog 
stories." 

"Sure  I  do,  honey,"  said  Mr.  Pottle,  "but  a  man 
can  like  stories  about  elephants  without  wanting  to  own 
one,  can't  he  ?" 

"A  dog  is  not  an  elephant,  Ambrose." 

He  could  not  deny  it. 

"Don't  you  remember,"  she  pursued,  rapturously, 
"that  lovely  book,  'Hero,  the  Collie  Beautiful,'  where 
a  kiddie  finds  a  puppy  in  an  ash  barrel,  and  takes  care 
of  it,  and  later  the  collie  grows  up  and  rescues  the 
kiddie  from  a  fire;  or  was  that  the  book  where  the 
collie  flew  at  the  throat  of  the  man  who  came  to  murder 
the  kiddie's  father,  and  the  father  broke  down  and  put 
his  arms  around  the  collie's  neck  because  he  had  kicked 
the  collie  once  and  the  collie  used  to  follow  him  around 
with  big,  hurt  eyes  and  yet  when  he  was  in  danger  Hero 
saved  him  because  collies  are  so  sensitive  and  so  loyal  ?" 

"Uh  huh,"  assented  Mr.  Pottle. 

"And  that  story  we  read,  'Almost  Human',"  she  rip- 
pled on  fluidly,  "about  the  kiddie  who  was  lost  in  a 
snow-storm  in  the  mountains  and  the  brave  St.  Bernard 
that  came  along  with  bottles  of  spirits  around  its  neck — 
St.  Bernards  always  carry  them — and " 


Mr.  Pottle  and  the  One  Man  Dog    71 

"Do  the  bottles  come  with  the  dogs?"  asked  Mr. 
Pottle,  hopefully. 

She  elevated  disapproving  eyebrows. 

"Ambrose,"  she  said,  sternly,  "don't  always  be  mak- 
ing jests  about  alcohol.  It's  so  common.  You  know 
when  I  married  you,  you  promised  never  even  to  think 
of  it  again." 

"Yes,  Blossom,"  said  Mr.  Pottle,  meekly. 

She  beamed. 

"Well,  dear,  what  kind  of  a  dog  shall  we  get?"  she 
asked  briskly.  He  felt  that  all  was  lost. 

"There  are  dogs  and  dogs,"  he  said  moodily.  "And 
I  don't  know  anything  about  any  of  them." 

"I'll  read  what  it  says  here,"  she  said.  Mrs.  Pottle 
was  pursuing  culture  through  the  encyclopedia,  and  felt 
that  she  would  overtake  it  on  almost  any  page  now. 

"Dog,"  she  read,  "is  the  English  generic  term  for  the 
quadruped  of  the  domesticated  variety  of  cams." 

"Well,  I'll  be  darned !"  exclaimed  her  husband.  "Is 
that  a  fact?" 

"Be  serious,  Ambrose,  please.  The  choice  of  a  dog 
is  no  jesting  matter,"  she  rebuked  him,  and  then  read 
on,  "In  the  Old  and  New  Testaments  the  dog  is  spoken 
of  almost  with  abhorrence;  indeed,  it  ranks  among  the 
unclean  beasts " 

"There,  Blossom,"  cried  Mr.  Pottle,  clutching  at  a 
straw,  "what  did  I  tell  you  ?  Would  you  fly  in  the  face 
of  the  Good  Book  ?" 

She  did  not  deign  to  reply  verbally;  she  looked  re- 
frigerators at  him. 

"The  Egyptians,  on  the  other  hand,"  she  read,  a 
note  of  triumph  in  her  voice,  "venerated  the  dog,  and 
when  a  dog  died  they  shaved  their  heads  as  a  badge  of 
mournii 


72     The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

"The  Egyptians  did,  hey?"  remarked  Mr.  Pottle, 
open  disgust  on  his  apple  of  face.  "Shaved  their  own 
heads,  did  they?  No  wonder  they  all  turned  to  mum- 
mies. You  can't  tell  me  it's  safe  for  a  man  to  shave 
his  own  head;  there  ought  to  be  a  law  against  it." 

Mr.  Pottle  was  in  the  barber  business. 

Unheedful  of  this  digression,  Mrs.  Pottle  read  on. 

"There  are  many  sorts  of  dogs.  I'll  read  the  list  so 
we  can  pick  out  ours.  You  needn't  look  cranky,  Am- 
brose; we're  going  to  have  one.  Let  me  see.  Ah,  yes. 
'There  are  Great  Danes,  mastiffs,  collies,  dalmatians, 
chows,  New  Foundlands,  poodles,  setters,  pointers,  re- 
trievers— Labrador  and  flat-coated — spaniels,  beagles, 
dachshunds — I'll  admit  they  are  rather  nasty;  they're 
the  only  sort  of  dog  I  can't  bear — whippets,  otter- 
hounds, terriers,  including  Scotch,  Irish,  Welsh,  Skye 
and  fox,  and  St.  Bernards.'  St.  Bernards,  it  says,  are 
the  largest;  'their  ears  are  small  and  their  foreheads 
white  and  dome-shaped,  giving  them  the  well  known 
expression  of  benignity  and  intelligence.'  Oh,  Am- 
brose"— her  eyes  were  full  of  dreams — "Oh,  Ambrose, 
wouldn't  it  be  just  too  wonderful  for  words  to  have  a 
great,  big,  beautiful  dog  like  that?" 

"There  isn't  any  too  much  room  in  this  bungalow  as 
it  is,"  demurred  Mr.  Pottle.  "Better  get  a  chow." 

"You  don't  seem  to  realize,  Ambrose  Pottle,"  the  lady 
replied  with  some  severity,  "that  what  I  want  a  dog  for 
is  protection." 

"Protection,  my  angel  ?    Can't  I  protect  you  ?" 

"Not  when  you're  away  on  the  road  selling  your 
shaving  cream.  Then's  when  I  need  some  big,  loyal 
creature  to  protect  me." 

"From  what?" 

"Well,  burglars." 


Mr.  Pottle  and  the  One  Man  Dog    73 

"Why  should  they  come  here  ?" 

"How  about  all  our  wedding  silver  ?  And  then  kid- 
napers might  come." 

"Kidnapers  ?    What  could  they  kidnap  ?" 

"Me,"  said  Mrs.  Pottle.  "How  would  you  like  to 
come  home  from  Zanesville  or  Bucyrus  some  day  and 
find  me  gone,  Ambrose?"  Her  lip  quivered  at  the 
thought. 

To  Mr.  Pottle,  privately,  this  contingency  seemed 
remote.  His  bride  was  not  the  sort  of  woman  one 
might  kidnap  easily.  She  was  a  plentiful  lady  of  a 
well  developed  maturity,  whose  clothes  did  not  conceal 
her  heroic  mold,  albeit  they  fitted  her  as  tightly  as  if 
her  modiste  were  a  taxidermist.  However,  not  for 
worlds  would  he  have  voiced  this  sacrilegious  thought; 
he  was  in  love;  he  preferred  that  she  should  think  of 
herself  as  infinitely  clinging  and  helpless;  he  fancied 
the  role  of  sturdy  oak. 

"All  right,  Blossom,"  he  gave  in,  patting  her  cheek. 
"If  my  angel  wants  a  dog,  she  shall  have  one.  That 
reminds  me,  Charley  Meacham,  the  boss  barber  of  the 
Ohio  House,  has  a  nice  litter.  He  offered  me  one  or 
two  or  three  if  I  wanted  them.  The  mother  is  as  fine  a 
looking  spotted  coach  dog  as  ever  you  laid  an  eye  on  and 
the  pups " 

"What  was  the  father  ?"  demanded  Mrs.  Pottle. 

"How  should  I  know?  There's  a  black  pup,  and  a 
spotted  pup,  and  a  yellow  pup,  and  a  white  pup  and 
a " 

Mrs.  Pottle  sniffed. 

"No  mungles  for  me,"  she  stated,  flatly,  "I  hate  mun- 
gles.  I  want  a  thoroughbred,  or  nothing.  One  with  a 
pedigree,  like  that  adorably  handsome  creature  there." 


74      The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

She  nodded  toward  the  engraving  of 'the  giant  St. 
Bernards. 

"But,  darling,"  objected  Mr.  Pottle,  "pedigreed'pups 
cost  money.  A  dog  can  bark  and  bite  whether  he  has  a 
family  tree  or  not,  can't  he?  We  can't  afford  one  of 
these  fancy,  blue-blooded  ones.  I've  got  notes  at  the 
bank  right  now  I  don't  know  how  the  dooce  I'm  going 
to  pay.  My  shaving  stick  needs  capital.  I  can't  be 
blowing  in  hard-earned  dough  on  pups." 

"Oh,  Ambrose,  I  actually  believe  you — don't' — care 
• — whether — I'm — kidnaped — or — not!"  his  wife  be- 
gan, a  catch  in  her  voice.  A  heart  of  wrought  iron 
would  have  been  melted  by  the  pathos  of  her  tone  and 
face. 

"There,  there,  honey,"  said  Mr.  Pottle,  hastily,  with 
an  appropriate  amatory  gesture,  "you  shall  have  your 
pup.  But  remember  this,  Blossom  Pottle.  He's 
yours.  You  are  to  have  all  the  responsibility  and  care 
of  him." 

"Oh,  Ambrose,  you're  so  good  to  me,"  she  breathed. 

The  next  evening  when  Mr.  Pottle  came  home  he  ol> 
served  something  brown  and  fuzzy  nestling  in  his  Sun- 
day velour  hat.  With  a  smothered  exclamation  of  the 
kind  that  has  no  place  in  a  romance,  he  dumped  the 
thing  out  and  saw  it  waddle  away  on  unsteady  legs, 
leaving  him  sadly  contemplating  the  strawberry  silk 
lining  of  his  best  hat. 

"Isn't  he  a  love?  Isn't  he  just  too  sweet,"  cried 
Mrs.  Pottle,  emerging  from  the  living  room  and  catch- 
ing the  object  up  in  her  arms.  "Come  to  mama, 
sweetie-pie.  Did  the  nassy  man  frighten  my  precious 
Pershing?" 

"Your  precious  what  ?" 


Mr.  Pottle  and  the  One  Man  Dog-    75 

"Pershing.  I  named  him  for  a  brave  man  and  a 
fighter.  I  just  know  he'll  be  worthy  of  it,  when  he 
grows'up,  and  starts  to  protect  me." 

"In  how  many  years?"  inquired  Mr.  Pottle,  cyni- 
cally. 

"The  man  said  he'd  be  big  enough  to  be  a  watch 
dog  in  a  very  few  months ;  they  grow  so  fast." 

"What  man  said  this  ?" 

"The  kennel  man.  I  bought  Pershing  at  the  Laddie- 
brook-Sunshine  Kennels  to-day."  She  paused  to  kiss 
the  pink  muzzle  of  the  little  animal ;  Mr.  Pottle  winced 
at  this  but  she  noted  it  not,  and  rushed  on. 

"Such  an  interesting  place,  Ambrose.  Nothing  but 
dogs  and  dogs  and  dogs.  All  kinds,  too.  They  even 
had  one  mean,  sneaky-looking  dachshund  there;  I  just 
couldn't  trust  a  dog  like  that.  Ugh!  Well,  I  looked 
at  all  the  dogs.  The  minute  I  saw  Pershing  I  knew 
he  was  my  dog.  His  little  eyes  looked  up  at  me  as  much 
as  to  say,  'I'll  be  yours,  mistress,  faithful  to  the  death,' 
and  he  poit  out  the  dearest  little  pink  tongue  and  licked 
my  hand.  The  kennel  man  said,  'Now  ain't  that  won- 
derful, lady,  the  way  he's  taken  to  you?  Usually  he 
growls  at  strangers.  He's  a  one  man  dog,  all  right,  all 
right'." 

"A  one  man  dog?"  said  Mr.  Pottle,  blankly. 

"Yes.  One  that  loves  his  owner,  and  nobody  else. 
That's  just  the  kind  I  want." 

"Where  do  I  come  in  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Pottle. 

"Oh,  he'll  learn  to  tolerate  you,  I  guess,"  she  reas- 
sured him.  Then  she  rippled  on,  "I  just  had  to  have 
him  then.  He  was  one  of  five,  but  he  already  had  a 
little  personality  all  his  own,  although  he's  only  three 
weeks  old.  I  saw  his  mother — a  magnificent  creature, 
Ambrose,  big  as  a  Shetland  pony  and  twice  as  shaggy, 


76     The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

and  with  the  most  wonderful  appealing  eyes,  that  looked 
at  me  as  if  it  stabbed  her  to  the  heart  to  have  her  little 
ones  taken  from  her.  And  such  a  pedigree  !  It  covers 
pages.  Her  name  is  Gloria  Audacious  Indomitable; 
the  Audacious  Indomitables  are  a  very  celebrated  fam- 
ily of  St.  Bernards,  the  kennel  man  said." 

"What  about  his  father?"  queried  Mr.  Pottle,  poking 
the  ball  of  pup  with  his  finger. 

"I  didn't  see  him,"  admitted  Mrs.  Pottle.    "I  believe 
they  are  not  living  together  now." 

She  snuggled  the  pup  to  her  capacious  bosom. 

"So,"  she  said,  "it's  whole  name  is  Pershing  Auda- 
cious Indomitable,  isn't  it,  tweetums  ?" 

"It's  a  swell  name,"  admitted  Mr.  Pottle.     "Er— 
Blossom  dear,  how  much  did  he  cost  ?" 

She  brought  out  the  reply  quickly,  almost  timidly. 

"Fifty  dollars." 

his  voice  stuck  in  his  larynx.     "Great 


Caesar's  Ghost!" 

"But  think  of  his  pedigree,"  cried  his  wifa 

All  he  could  say  was  : 

"Great  Caesar's  Ghost!  Fifty  dollars!  Great 
Csesar's  Ghost!" 

"Why,  we  can  exhibit  him  at  bench  shows,"  she 
argued,  "and  win  hundreds  of  dollars  in  prizes.  And 
his  pups  will  be  worth  fifty  dollars  per  pup  easily,  with 
that  pedigree." 

"Great  Caesar's  Ghost,"  said  Mr.  Pottle,  despon- 
dently. "Fifty  dollars  !  And  the  shaving  stick  business 
all  geflooey." 

"He'll  be  worth  a  thousand  to  me  as  a  protector," 
she  declared,  defiantly.  "You  wait  and  see,  Ambrose 
Pottle.  Wait  till  he  grows  up  to  be  a  great,  big,  hand- 
some, intelligent  dog,  winning  prizes  and  protecting 


Mr.  Pottle  and  the  One  Man  Dog-    77 

jour  wife.  He'll  be  the  best  investment  we  ever  made, 
you  mark  my  words." 

Had  Pershing  encountered  Mr.  Pottle's  eye  at  that 
moment  the  marrow  of  his  small  canine  bones  would 
have  congealed. 

"All  right,  Blossom,"  said  her  spouse,  gloomily. 
"He's  yours.  You  take  care  of  him.  I  wonder,  I  just 
wonder,  that's  alL" 

"What  do  you  wonder,  Ambrose?" 

"If  they'll  let  him  visit  us  when  we're  in  the  poor 
house." 

To  this  his  wife  remarked,  "Fiddlesticks,"  and  began 
to  feed  Pershing  from  a  nursing  bottle. 

"Grade  A  milk,  I  suppose,"  groaned  Mr.  Pottle. 

"Cream,"  she  corrected,  calmly.  "Pershing  is  no 
mungle.  Remember  that,  Ambrose  Pottle," 

It  was  a  nippy,  frosty  night,  and  Mr.  Pottle,  after 
much  chattering  of  teeth,  had  succeeded  in  getting  a 
place  warm  in  the  family  bed,  and  was  floating  peace- 
fully into  a  dream  in  which  he  got  a  contract  for  ten 
carload  lots  of  Pottle's  Edible  Shaving  Cream.  "Just 
Lather,  Shave  and  Lick.  That? s  AIL"  when  his  wife's 
soft  knuckles  prodded  him  in  the  ribs. 

"Ambrose,  Ambrose,  do  wake  up.  Do  you  hear 
that?" 

He  sleepily  opened  a  protesting  eye.  He  heard 
faint,  plaintive,  peeping  sounds  somewhere  in  the  house, 

"It's  that  wretched  hound,"  he  said  crossly. 

"Pershing  is  not  a  hound,  Ambrose  Pottle." 

"Oh,  all  right,  Blossom,  AT.T.  RIGHT.  If  s  that  noble 
creature,  G'night." 

But  the  knuckles  tattooed  on  his  drowsy  ribs  again. 

"Ambrose,  he's  lonesome." 


78      The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

~No  response. 

"Ambrose,  little  Pershing  is  lonesome." 

"Well,  suppose  you  go  and  sing  him  to  sleep." 

"Ambrose !    And  us  married  only  a  month !" 

Mr.  Pottle  sat  up  in  bed. 

"Is  he  your  pup,"  he  demanded,  oratorically,  "or  is 
he  not  your  pup,  Mrs.  Pottle  ?  And  anyhow,  why  pam- 
per him  ?  He's  all  right.  Didn't  I  walk  six  blocks  in 
the  cold  to  a  grocery  store  to  get  a  box  for  his  bed? 
Didn't  you  line  it  with  some  of  my  best  towels  ?  Isn't 
it  under  a  nice,  warm  stove?  What  more  can  a 
hound " 

"Ambrose!" 

" noble  creature,  expect  ?" 

He  dived  into  his  pillow  as  if  it  were  oblivion. 

"Ambrose,"  said  his  wife,  loudly  and  firmly,  "Persh- 
ing  is  lonesome.  Thoroughbreds  have  such  sensitive 
natures.  If  he  thought  we  were  lying  here  neglecting 
him,  it  wouldn't  surprise  me  a  bit  if  he  died  of  a  broken 
heart  before  morning.  A  pedigreed  dog  like  Pershing 
has  the  feelings  of  a  delicate  child." 

Muffled  words  came  from  the  Pottle  pillow. 

"Well,  whose  one  man  clog  is  he  ?" 

Mrs.  Pottle  began  to  sniffle  audibly. 

"I  d-don't  believe  you'd  c-care  if  I  got  up  and  c-caught 
my  d-death  of  c-cold,"  she  said.  "You  know  how  easily 
I  c-chill,  too.  But  I  c-can't  leave  that  poor  motherless 
little  fellow  cry  his  heart  out  in  that  big,  dark,  lonely 
kitchen.  I'll  just  have  to  get  up  and — 

She  stirred  around  as  if  she  really  intended  to.  The 
chivalrous  Mr.  Pottle  heaved  up  from  his  pillow  like 
an  irate  grampus  from  the  depths  of  a  tank. 

"I'll  go,"  he  grumbled,  fumbling  around  with  goose- 
fleshed  limbs  for  his  chilly  slippers.  "Shall  I  toll 


Mr.  Pottle  and  the  One  Man  Dog-    79 

him  about  Little  Eed  Riding  Hood  or  Goody  Two 
Shoes?" 

"Ambrose,  if  you  speak  roughly  to  Pershing,  I  shall 
never  forgive  you.  And  he  won't  either.  No.  Bring 
him  in  here." 

"Here?"  His  tone  was  aghast;  barbers  are  aseptic 
souls. 

"Yes,  of  course." 

"In  bed?" 

"Certainly." 

"Oh,  Blossom!" 

"We  can't  leave  him  in  the  cold,  can  we  ?" 

"But,  Blossom,  suppose  he's — suppose  he  has " 

The  hiatus  was  expressive. 

"He  hasn't."  Her  voice  was  one  of  indignant  denial. 
"Pedigreed  dogs  don't.  Why,  the  kennels  were  im- 
maculate." 

"Humph,"  said  Mr.  Pottle  dubiously.  He  strode 
into  the  kitchen  and  returned  with  Pershing  in  his 
arms ;  he  plumped  the  small,  bushy,  whining  animal  in 
bed  beside  his  wife. 

"I  suppose,  Mrs.  Pottle,"  he  said,  "that  you  are 
prepared  to  take  the  consequences." 

She  stroked  the  squirming  thing,  which  emitted  small, 
protesting  bleats. 

"Don't  you  mind  the  nassy  man,  sweetie-pie,"  she 
cooed.  "Casting  'spersions  on  poor  lil'  lonesome  dog- 
gie." Then,  to  her  husband,  "Ambrose,  how  can  you 
suggest  such  a  thing  ?  Don't  stand  there  in  the  cold." 

"Nevertheless,"  said  Mr.  Pottle,  oracularly,  as  he 
prepared  to  seek  slumber  at  a  point  as  remote  as  pos- 
sible in  the  bed  from  Pershing,  "I'll  bet  a  dollar  to  a 
doughnut  that  I'm  right." 

Mr.  Pottle  won  his  doughnut     At  three  o'clock  in 


8o     The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Petti pon 

the  morning,  with  the  mercury  flirting  with  the  freez- 
ing mark,  he  suddenly  surged  up  from  his  pillow,  made 
twitching  motions  with  limbs  and  shoulders,  and  stalked 
out  into  the  living  room,  where  he  finished  the  night  on 
a  hard-boiled  army  cot,  used  for  guests. 

As  the  days  hurried  by,  he  had  to  admit  that  the 
kennel  man's  predictions  about  the  rapid  growth  of  the 
animal  seemed  likely  of  fulfillment.  In  a  very  few 
weeks  the  offspring  of  Gloria  Audacious  Indomitable 
had  attained  prodigous  proportions. 

"But,  Blossom,"  said  Mr.  Pottle,  eyeing  the  animal 
as  it  gnawed  industriously  at  the  golden  oak  legs  of  the 
player  piano,  "isn't  he  growing  in  a  sort  of  funny 
way?" 

"Funny  way,  Ambrose?" 

"Yes,  dear ;  funny  way.    Look  at  his  legs." 

She  contemplated  those  members. 

"Well?" 

"They're  kinda  brief,  aren't  they,  Blossom  ?" 

"Naturally.  He's  no  giraffe,  Ambrose.  Young  thor- 
oughbreds have  small  legs.  Just  like  babies." 

"But  he  seems  so  sorta  long  in  proportion  to  his  legs," 
said  Mr.  Pottle,  critically.  "He  gets  to  look  more  like 
an  overgrown  caterpillar  every  day." 

"You  said  yourself,  Ambrose,  that  you  know  nothing 
about  dogs,"  his  wife  reminded  him.  "The  legs  always 
develop  last.  Give  Pershing  a  chance  to  get  his  growth ; 
then  you'll  see." 

Mr.  Pottle  shrugged,  unconvinced. 

"It's  time  to  take  Pershing  out  for  his  airing,"  Mrs. 
Pottle  observed. 

A  fretwork  of  displeasure  appeared  on  the  normally 
bland  brow  of  Mr.  Pottle. 


Mr.  Pottle  and  the  One  Man  Dog-    81 

"Lotta  good  that  does,"  he  grunted.  "Besides,  I'm 
getting  tired  of  leading  him  around  on  a  string.  He's 
so  darn  funny  looking;  the  boys  are  beginning  to  kid  me 
about  him." 

"Do  you  want  me  to  go  out,"  asked  Mrs.  Pottle, 
"with  this  heavy  cold  ?" 

"Oh,  all  right,"  said  Mr.  Pottle  blackly. 

"Now,  Pershing  precious,  let  mama  put  on  your  lil' 
blanket  so  you  can  go  for  a  nice  lil'  walk  with  your 
papa." 

"I'm  not  his  papa,"  growled  Mr.  Pottle,  rebel- 
liously.  "I'm  no  relation  of  his." 

However,  the  neighbors  along  Garden  Avenue  pres- 
ently spied  a  short,  rotund  man,  progressing  with  re- 
luctant step  along  the  street,  in  his  hand  a  leathern  leash 
at  the  end  of  which  ambled  a  pup  whose  physique  was 
the  occasion  of  some  discussion  among  the  dog-fanciers 
who  beheld  it. 

"Blossom,"  said  Mr.  Pottle — it  was  after  Pershing 
had  outgrown  two  boxes  and  a  large  wash-basket — "you 
may  say  what  you  like  but  that  dog  of  yours  looks  funny 
to  me." 

"How  can  you  say  that  ?"  she  retorted.  "Just  look 
at  that  long  heavy  coat.  Look  at  that  big,  handsome 
head.  Look  at  those  knowing  eyes,  as  if  he  understood 
every  word  we're  saying." 

"But  his  legs,  Blossom,  his  legs !" 

"They  are  a  wee,  tiny  bit  short,"  she  confessed.  "But 
he's  still  in  his  infancy.  Perhaps  we  don't  feed  him 
often  enough." 

"JSTo  ?"  said  Mr.  Pottle  with  a  rising  inflection  which 
had  the  perfume  of  sarcasm  about  it,  "No  ?  I  suppose 


82      The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

seven  times  a  day,  including  once  in  the  middle  of  the 
night  isn't  often  enough  ?" 

"Honestly,  Ambrose,  you'd  think  you  were  an  early 
Christian  martyr  being  devoured  by  tigers  to  hear  all 
the  fuss  you  make  about  getting  up  just  once  for  five  or 
ten  minutes  in  the  night  to  feed  poor,  hungry  little 
Pershing." 

"It  hardly  seems  worth  it,"  remarked  Mr.  Pottle, 
"with  him  turning  out  this  way." 

"What  way  ?" 

"Bandy-legged." 

"St.  Bernards,"  she  said  with  dignity,  "do  not  run 
to  legs.  Mungles  may  be  all  leggy,  but  not  full  blooded 
St.  Bernards.  He's  a  baby,  remember  that,  Ambrose 
Pottle." 

"He  eats  more  than  a  full  grown  farm  hand,"  said 
Mr.  Pottle.  "And  steak  at  fifty  cents  a  pound !" 

"You  can't  bring  up  a  delicate  dog  like  Pershing 
on  liver,"  said  Mrs.  Pottle,  crushingly.  "Now  run 
along,  Ambrose,  and  take  him  for  a  good  airing,  while 
I  get  his  evening  broth  ready." 

"They  extended  that  note  of  mine  at  the  bank,  Blos- 
som," said  Mr.  Pottle. 

"Don't  let  him  eat  out  of  ash  cans,  and  don't  let  him 
associate  with  mungles,"  said  Mrs.  Pottle. 

Mr.  Pottle  skulked  along  side-streets,  now  dragging, 
now  being  dragged  by  the  muscular  Pershing.  It  was 
Mr.  Pottle's  idea  to  escape  the  attention  of  his  friends, 
of  whom  there  were  many  in  Granville,  and  who,  of 
late,  had  shown  a  disposition  to  make  remarks  about 
his  evening  promenade  that  irked  his  proud  spirit.  But, 
as  he  rounded  the  corner  of  Cottage  Row,  he  encoun- 
tered Charlie  Meacham,  tonsorialist,  dog-fancier,  wit. 


Mr.  Pottle  and  the  One  Man  Dog    83 

"Evening,  Ambrose." 

"Evening,  Charlie." 

Mr.  Pottle  tried  to  ignore  Pershing,  to  pretend  that 
there  was  no  connection  between  them,  but  Pershing 
reared  up  on  stumpy  hind  legs  and  sought  to  embrace 
Mr.  Meacham. 

"Where'd  you  get  the  pt>och?"  inquired  Mr. 
Meacham,  with  some  interest. 

"Wife's,"  said  Mr.  Pottle,  briefly. 

"Where'd  she  find  it?" 

"Didn't  find  him.  Bought  him  at  Laddiebrook-Sun- 
shine  Kennels." 

"Oho,"  whistled  Mr.  Meacham. 

"Pedigreed,"  confided  Mr.  Pottle. 

"You  don't  tell  me!" 

"Yep.    Name's  Pershing." 

"Name's  what?" 

"Pershing.    In  honor  of  the  great  general." 

Mr.  Meacham  leaned  against  a  convenient  lamp- 
post ;  he  seemed  of  a  sudden  overcome  by  some  powerful 
emotion. 

"What's  the  joke  ?"  asked  Mr.  Pottle. 

"Pershing!"  Mr.  Meacham  was  just  able  to  get  out. 
"Oh,  me,  oh  my.  That's  rich.  That's  a  scream." 

"Pershing,"  said  Mr.  Pottle,  stoutly,  "Audacious  In- 
domitable. You  ought  to  see  his  pedigree." 

"I'd  like  to,"  said  Mr.  Meacham,  "I  certainly  would 
like  to." 

He  was  studying  the  architecture  of  Pershing  with 
the  cool  appraising  eye  of  the  expert.  His  eye  rested 
for  a  long  time  on  the  short  legs  and  long  body. 

"Pottle,"  he  said,  thoughtfully,  "haven't  they  got  a 
dachshund  up  at  those  there  kennels  ?" 

Mr.  Pottle  knitted  perplexed  brows. 


84      The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

"I  believe  they  have,"  he  said.     "Why?" 

"Oh,  nothing,"  replied  Mr.  Meacham,  struggling  to 
keep  a  grip  on  his  emotions  which  threatened  to  choke 
him,  "Oh,  nothing."  And-he  went  off,  with  Mr.  Pottle 
staring  at  his  shoulder  blades  which  titillated  oddly 
as  Mr.  Meacham  walked. 

Mr.  Pottle,  after  a  series  of  tugs-of-war,  got  his 
charge  home.  A  worry  wormed  its  way  into  his  brain 
like  an  auger  into  a  pine  plank.  The  worry  became 
a  suspicion.  The  suspicion  became  a  horrid  certainty. 
Gallant  man  that  he  was,  and  lover,  he  did  not  mention 
it  to  Blossom. 

But  after  that  the  evening  excursion  with  Pershing 
became  his  cross  and  his  wormwood.  He  pleaded  to 
be  allowed  to  take  Pershing  out  after  dark;  Blossom 
wouldn't  hear  of  it;  the  night  air  might  injure  his 
pedigreed  lungs.  In  vain  did  he  offer  to  hire  a  man — 
at  no  matter  what  cost — to  take  his  place  as  companion 
to  the  creature  which  daily  grew  more  pronounced  and 
remarkable  as  to  shape.  Blossom  declared  that  she 
would  entrust  no  stranger  with  her  dog ;  a  Pottle,  and  a 
Pottle  only,  could  escort  him.  The  nightly  pilgrimage 
became  almost  unendurable  after  a  total  stranger,  said 
to  be  a  Dubuque  traveling  man,  stopped  Mr.  Pottle  on 
the  street  one  evening  and  asked,  gravely: 

"I  beg  pardon,  sir,  but  isn't  that  animal  a  peagle  ?" 

"He  is  not  a  beagle,"  said  Mr.  Pottle,  shortly. 

"I  didn't  say  'beagle',"  the  stranger  smiled,  "I  said 
'peagle' — p-e-a-g-1-e." 

"What's  that?" 

"A  peagle,"  answered  the  stranger,  "is  a  cross  be- 
tween a  pony  and  a  beagle."  It  took  three  men  to 
stop  the  fight 


Mr.  Pottle  and  the  One  Man  Dog    85 

Pershing,  as  Mr.  Pottle  perceived  all  too  plainly,  was 
growing  more  curious  and  ludicrous  to  the  eye  every- 
day. He  had  the  enormous  head,  the  heavy  body,  the 
shaggy  coat,  and  the  benign,  intellectual  face  of  his 
mother;  but  alas,  he  had  the  bandy,  caster-like  legs  of 
his  paitative  father.  He  was  an  anti-climax.  Every- 
body in  Granville,  save  Blossom  alone,  seemed  to  realize 
the  stark,  the  awful  truth  about  Pershing's  ancestry. 
Even  he  seemed  to  realize  his  own  sad  state;  he  wore 
a  shamefaced  look  as  he  trotted  by  the  side  of  Ambrose 
Pottle;  Mr.  Pottle's  own  features  grew  hang-dog.  De- 
spite her  spouse's  hints,  Blossom  never  lost  faith  in 
Pershing. 

"Just  you  wait,  Ambrose,"  she  said.  "One  of  these 
fine  days  you'll  wake  up  and  find  he  has  developed  a 
full  grown  set  of  limbs." 

"Like  a  tadpole,  I  suppose,"  he  said  grimly. 

"Joke  all  you  like,  Ambrose.  But  mark  my  words: 
you'll  be  proud  of  Pershing.  Just  look  at  him  there, 
taking  in  every  word  we  say.  Why,  already  he  can  do 
everything  but  speak.  I  just  know  I  could  count  on 
him  if  I  was  in  danger  from  burglars  or  kidnapers 
or  anything.  I'll  feel  so  much  safer  with  him 
in  the  house  when  you  take  your  trip  East  next 
month." 

"The  burglar  that  came  on  him  in  the  dark  would  be 
scared  to  death,"  mumbled  Mr.  Pottle.  She  ignored 
this  aside. 

"Now,  Ambrose,"  she  said,  "take  the  comb  and  give 
him  a  good  combing.  I  may  enter  him  in  a  bench  show 
next  month." 

"You  ought  to,"  remarked  Mr.  Pottle,  as  he  led 
Pershing  away,  "he  looks  like  a  bench." 


86      The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

It  was  with  a  distinct  sense  of  escape  that  Mr.  Pottle 
some  weeks  later  took  a  train  for  Washington  where 
he  hoped  to  have  patented  and  trade-marked  his  edible 
shaving  cream,  a  discovery  he  confidently  expected  to 
make  his  fortune. 

"Good-by,  Ambrose,"  said  Mrs.  Pottle.  "I'll  write 
you  every  day  how  Pershing  is  getting  along.  At  the 
rate  he's  growing  you  won't  know  him  when  you  come 
back.  You  needn't  worry  about  me.  My  one  man  dog 
will  guard  me,  won't  you,  sweetie-pie?  There  now, 
give  your  paw  to  Papa  Pottle." 

"I'm  not  his  papa,  I  tell  you,"  cried  Mr.  Pottle  with 
some  passion  as  he  grabbed  up  his  suit-case  and 
crunched  down  the  gravel  path. 

In  all,  his  business  in  Washington  kept  him  away 
from  his  home  for  twenty-four  days.  While  he  missed 
the  society  of  Blossom,  somehow  he  experienced  a  deli- 
cious feeling  of  freedom  from  care,  shame  and  respon- 
sibility as  he  took  his  evening  stroll  about  the  capital. 
His  trip  was  a  success ;  the  patent  was  secured,  the  trade- 
mark duly  registered.  The  patent  lawyer,  as  he  pock- 
eted his  fee,  perhaps  to  salve  his  conscience  for  its  size, 
produced  from  behind  a  law  book  a  bottle  of  an  ancient 
and  once  honorable  fluid  and  pressed  it  on  Mr.  Pottle. 

"I  promised  the  wife  I'd  stay  on  the  sprinkling 
cart,"  demurred  Mr.  Pottle. 

"Oh,  take  it  along,"  urged  the  patent  lawyer.  "You 
may  need  it  for  a  cold  one  of  these  days." 

It  occurred  to  Mr.  Pottle  that  if  there  is  one  place 
in  the  world  a  man  may  catch  his  death  of  cold  it  is  on 
a  draughty  railroad  train,  and  wouldn't  it  be  foolish  of 
him  with  a  fortune  in  his  grasp,  so  to  speak,  not  to  take 
every  precaution  against  a  possibly  fatal  illness?  Be- 
sides he  knew  that  Blossom  would  never  permit  him  to 


Mr.  Pottle  and  the  One  Man  Dog    87 

bring  the  bottle  into  their  home.  He  preserved  it  in  the 
only  way  possible  under  the  circumstances.  When  the 
train  reached  Granville  just  after  midnight,  Mr.  Pottle 
skipped  blithely  from  the  car,  made  a  sweeping  bow  to 
a  milk  can,  cocked  his  derby  over  his  eye,  which  was 
uncommonly  bright  and  playful,  and  started  for  home 
with  the  meticulous  but  precarious  step  of  the  tight  rope! 
walker. 

It  was  his  plan,  carefully  conceived,  to  steal  softly 
as  thistledown  falling  on  velvet,  into  his  bungalow  with- 
out waking  the  sleeping  Blossom,  to  spend  the  night  on 
the  guest  cot,  to  spring  up,  fresh  as  a  dewy  daisy  in 
the  morn,  and  wake  his  wife  with  a  smiling  and  coher- 
ent account  of  his  trip. 

Very  quietly  he  tip-toed  along  the  lawn  leading  to 
his  front  door,  his  latch  key  out  and  ready.  But  as  he 
was  about  to  place  a  noiseless  foot  on  his  porch,  some- 
thing vast,  low  and  dark  barred  his  path,  and  a  bass  and 
hostile  growl  brought  him  to  an  abrupt  halt. 

"Well,  well,  well,  if  it  isn't  lil'  Pershin',"  said  Mr. 
Pottle,  pleasantly,  but  remembering  to  pitch  his  voice 
in  a  low  key.  "Waiting  on  the  porch  to  welcome  Papa 
Pottle  home !  Nice  lil'  Pershin'." 

"Grrrrrrr  Grrrrrrrrrr  Grrrrrrr  rrrrrrrrr,"  replied 
Pershing.  He  continued  to  bar  the  path,  to  growl 
ominously,  to  bare  strong  white  teeth  in  the  moonlight. 
In  Mr.  Pottle's  absence  he  had  grown  enormously  in 
head  and  body ;  but  not  in  leg. 

"Pershin',"  said  Mr.  Pottle,  plaintively,  "can  it  be 
that  you  have  forgotten  Papa  Pottle  ?  Have  you  for- 
gotten nice,  kind  mans  that  took  you  for  pretty  walks  ? 
That  fed  you  pretty  steaks?  That  gave  you  pretty 
baths  ?  Nice  lil'  Pershin',  nice  lil'- 

Mr.   Pottle  reached  down  to  pat  the  shaggy  head 


88      The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

and  drew  back  his  hand  with  something  that  would  pass 
as  a  curse  in  any  language ;  Pershing  had  given  his  fin- 
ger a  whole-hearted  nip. 

"You  low-down,  underslung  brute,"  rasped  Mr.  Pot- 
tle. "Get  out  of  my  way  or  I'll  kick  the  pedigree  outa 
you." 

Pershing's  growl  grew  louder  and  more  menacing. 
Mr.  Pottle  hesitated;  he  feared  Blossom  more  than 
Pershing.  He  tried  cajolery. 

"Come,  come,  nice  lil'  St.  Bernard.  Great,  big, 
noble  St.  Bernard.  Come  for  lil'  walk  with  Papa  Pot- 
tle. Nice  Pershin',  nice  Pershin',  you  dirty  cur ' 

This  last  remark  was  due  to  the  animal's  earnest  but 
only  partially  successful  effort,  to  fasten  its  teeth  in  Mr. 
Pottle's  calf.  Pershing  gave  out  a  sharp,  disappointed 
yelp. 

A  white,  shrouded  figure  appeared  at  the  window. 

"Burglar,  go  away,"  it  said,  shrilly,  "or  I'll  sic  my 
savage  St.  Bernard  on  you." 

"He's  already  sicced,  Blottom,"  said  a  doleful  voice. 
"It's  me,  Blottom.  Your  Ambrose." 

"Why,  Ambrose !  .  How  queer  your  voice  sounds ! 
Why  don't  you  come  in." 

"Pershing  won't  let  me,"  cried  Mr.  Pottle.  "Call 
him  in." 

"He  won't  come,"  she  wailed,  "and  I'm  afraid  of  him 
at  night  like  this." 

"Coax  him  in." 

"He  won't  coax." 

"Bribe  him  with  food." 

"You  can't  bribe  a  thoroughbred." 

Mr.  Pottle  put  his  hands  on  his  hips,  and  standing  in 
the  exact  center  of  his  lawn,  raised  a  high,  sardonic 
voice. 


Mr.  Pottle  and  the  One  Man  Dog-    89 

"Oh,  yes/7  he  said,  "oh,  dear  me,  yes,  I'll  live  to  be 
proud  of  Peishing.  Oh,  yes  indeed.  I'll  live  to  love 
the  noble  creature.  I'll  be  glad  I  got  up  on  cold  nights 
to  pour  warm  milk  into  his  dear  little  stummick.  Oh, 
yes.  Oh,  yes,  he'll  be  worth  thousands  to  me.  Here 
I  go  down  to  Washington,  and  work  my  head  to  the 
bone  to  keep  a  roof  over  us,  and  when  I  get  back  I 
can't  get  under  it.  If  you  ask  me,  Mrs.  Blottom  Pottle 
nee  Gallup,  if  you  ask  me,  that  precious  animal  of  yours, 
that  noble  creature  is  the  muttiest  mutt  that  ever " 

"Ambrose !"  Her  edged  voice  clipped  his  oration 
short.  "You've  been  drinking!" 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Pottle  in  a  bellowing  voice,  "I 
guess  a  hound  like  that  is  enough  to  drive  a  person 
to  drink.  G'night,  Blottom.  I'm  going  to  sleep  in  the 
flower  bed.  Frozen  petunias  will  be  my  pillow.  When 
I'm  dead  and  gone,  be  kind  to  little  Pershing  for  my 
sake." 

"Ambrose!  Stop.  Think  of  the  neighbors.  Think 
of  your  health.  Come  into  the  house  this  minute." 

He  tried  to  obey  her  frantic  command,  but  the  low- 
lying,  far-flung  bulk  of  Pershing  blocked  the  way,  a 
growling,  fanged,  hairy  wall.  Mr.  Pottle  retreated  to 
the  flower  bed. 

"What  was  it  the  Belgiums  said?"  he  remarked. 
"They  shall  not  pash." 

"Oh,  what'll  I  do,  what'll  I  do?"  came  from  the 
window. 

"Send  for  the  militia,"  suggested  Mr.  Pottle  with 
savage  facetiousness. 

"I  know,"  cried  his  wife,  inspired,  "I'll  send  for  a 
veterinarian.  He'll  know  what  to  do." 

"A  veterinarian !"  he  protested  loudly.  "Five  bones 
a  visit,  and  us  the  joke  of  Granville." 


9O     The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

But  lie  could  suggest  nothing  better  and  presently 
an  automobile  discharged  a  sleepy  and  disgusted  dog- 
doctor  at  the  Pottle  homestead.  It  took  the  combined 
efforts  of  the  two  men  and  the  woman  to  entice  Persh- 
ing  away  from  the  door  long  enough  for  Mr.  Pottle  to 
slip  into  his  house.  During  the  course  of  Mrs.  Pot- 
tle's subsequent  remarks,  Mr.  Pottle  said  a  number  of 
times  that  he  was  sorry  he  hadn't  stayed  out  among  the 
petunias. 

In  the  morning  Pershing  greeted  him  with  an  inno- 
cent expression. 

"I  hope,  Mr.  Pottle,"  said  his  wife,  as  he  sipped 
black  coffee,  "that  you  are  now  convinced  what  a  splen- 
did watch  dog  Pershing  is." 

"I  wish  I  had  that  fifty  back  again,"  he  answered. 
"The  bank  won't  give  me  another  extension  on  that  note, 
Blossom." 

She  tossed  a  bit  of  bacon  to  Pershing  who  muffed  it 
and  retrieved  it  with  only  slight  damage  to  the  pink 
roses  on  the  rug. 

"I  can't  stand  this  much  longer,  Blossom,"  he  burst 
out. 

"What?" 

"You  used  to  love  me." 

"I  still  do,  Ambrose,  despite  all." 

"You  conceal  it  well.  That  mutt  takes  all  your 
time." 

"Mutt,  Ambrose?" 

"Mutt,"  said  Mr.  Pottle. 

"See !  He's  heard  you,"  she  cried.  "Look  at  that 
hurt  expression  in  his  face." 

"Bah,"  said  Mr.  Pottle.  "When  do  we  begin  to  get 
fifty  dollars  per  pup.  I  could  use  the  money.  Isn't  it 


Mr.  Pottle  and  the  One  Man  Dog    91 

about  time  this  great  hulking  creature  did  something  to 
earn  his  keep  ?  He's  got  the  appetite  of  a  lion." 

"Don't  mind  the  nassy  mans,  Pershing.  We're  not 
a  mutt,  are  we,  Pershing?  Ambrose,  please  don't  say- 
such  things  in  his  presence.  It  hurts  him  dreadfully. 
Mutt,  indeed.  Just  look  at  those  big,  gentle,  knowing 
eyes." 

"Look  at  those  legs,  woman,"  said  Mr.  Pottle. 

He  despondently  sipped  his  black  coffee. 

"Blossom,"  he  said.  "I'm  going  to  Chicago  to-night. 
Got  to  have  a  conference  with  the  men  who  are  dicker- 
ing with  me  about  manufacturing  my  shaving  cream. 
I'll  be  gone  three  days  and  I'll  be  busy  every  second." 

"Yes,  Ambrose.    Pershing  will  protect  me." 

"And  when  I  come  back,"  he  went  on  sternly,  "I 
want  to  be  able  to  get  into  my  own  house,  do  you  under- 
stand?" 

"I  warned  you  Pershing  was  a  one  man  dog,"  she 
replied.  "You'd  better  come  back  at  noon  while  he's 
at  lunch.  You  needn't  worry  about  us." 

"I  shan't  worry  about  Pershing,"  promised  Mr.  Pot- 
tle, reaching  for  his  suit-case. 

He  had  not  overstated  how  busy  he  would  be  in  Chi- 
cago. His  second  day  was  crowded.  After  a  trip  to 
the  factory,  he  was  closeted  at  his  hotel  in  solemn  con- 
ference in  the  evening  with  the  president,  a  vice-presi- 
dent or  two,  a  couple  of  assistant  vice-presidents  and 
their  assistants,  and  a  collection  of  sales  engineers,  pub- 
licity engineers,  production  engineers,  personnel  engi- 
neers, employment  engineers,  and  just  plain  engineers; 
for  a  certain  large  corporation  scented  profit  in  his  shav- 
ing cream.  They  were  putting  him  through  a  business 
third  degree  and  he  was  enjoying  it.  They  had  even 
reached  the  point  where  they  were  discussing  his  share 


92      The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

in  the  profits  if  they  decided  to  manufacture  his  dis- 
covery. Mr.  Pottle  was  expatiating  on  its  merits. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "there  are  some  forty  million 
beards  every  morning  in  these  United  States,  and  forty 
million  breakfasts  to  be  eaten  by  men  in  a  hurry.  Now, 
my  shaving  cream  being  edible,  combines " 

"Telegram  for  Mr.  Puddle,  Mr.  Puddle,  Mr.  Pud- 
dle," droned  a  bell  hop,  poking  in  a  head. 

"Excuse  me,  gentlemen,"  said  Mr.  Pottle.  He  hoped 
they  would  think  it  an  offer  from  a  rival  company.  As 
he  read  the  message  his  face  grew  white.  Alarming 
words  leaped  from  the  yellow  paper. 

"Come  home.     Very  serious  accident.     Blossom." 

That  was  all,  but  to  the  recently  mated  Mr.  Pottle 
it  was  enough.  He  crumpled  the  message  with  quiver- 
ing fingers. 

"Sorry,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  trying  to  smile  bravely. 
"Bad  news  from  home.  We'll  have  to  continue  this 
discussion  later." 

"You  can  just  make  the  10 :10  train,"  said  one  of  the 
engineers,  sympathetically.  "Hard  lines,  old  man." 

Granville's  lone,  asthmatic  taxi  coughed  up  Mr.  Pot- 
tle at  the  door  of  his  house;  it  was  dark;  he  did  not 
dare  look  at  the  door-knob.  His  trembling  hand  twisted 
the  key  in  the  lock. 

"Who's  that?"  called  a  faint  voice.  It  was  Blos- 
som's. He  thanked  God  she  was  still  alive. 

He  was  in  her  room  in  an  instant,  and  had  switched 
on  the  light.  She  lay  in  bed,  her  face,  once  rosy,  now 
pale;  her  eyes,  once  placid,  now  red-lidded  and  tear- 
swollen.  He  bent  over  her  with  tremulous  anxiety. 

"Honey,  what's  happened  ?    Tell  your  Ambrose." 

She  raised  herself  feebly  in  bed.  He  thanked  God 
she  could  move. 


Mr.  Pottle  and  the  One  Man  Dog    93 

"Oh,  it's  too  awful,"  she  said  with  a  sob.  "Too 
dreadful  for  words." 

"What?  Oh,  what?  TeU  me,  Blossom  dearest.  Tell 
me.  I'll  be  brave,  little  woman.  I'll  try  to  bear  it" 
He  pressed  her  fevered  hands  in  his. 

"I  can  hardly  believe  it,"  she  sobbed.  "I  c-can  hardly 
believe  it." 

"Believe  it  ?  Believe  what  ?  Tell  me,  Blossom  dar- 
ling, in  Heaven's  name,  tell  me." 

"Pershing,"  she  sobbed  in  a  heart-broken  crescendo, 
"Pershing  has  become  a  mother !" 

Her  sobs  shook  her. 

"And  they're  all  mungles,"  she  cried,  "all  nine  of 
them." 


Thunderclouds  festooned  the  usually  mild  forehead 
of  Mr.  Pottle  next  morning.  He  was  inclined  to  be  sar- 
castic. 

"Fifty  dollars  per  pup,  eh?"  he  said.  "Fifty  dol- 
lars per  pup,  eh  ?" 

"Don't,  Ambrose,"  his  wife  begged.  "I  can't  stand 
it.  To  think  with  eyes  like  that  Pershing  should  de- 
ceive me." 

"Pershing  ?"  snorted  Mr.  Pottle  so  violently  the  toast 
hopped  from  the  toaster.  "Pershing  ?  Not  now.  Vio- 
let! Violet!  Violet!" 

Mrs.  Pottle  looked  meek. 

"The  ash  man  said  he'd  take  the  pups  away  if  I  gave 
him  two  dollars,"  she  said. 

"Give  him  five,"  said  Mr.  Pottle,  "and  maybe  he'll 
take  Violet,  too." 

"I  will  not,  Ambrose  Pottle,"  she  returned.  "I  will 
not  desert  her  now  that  she  has  gotten  in  trouble.  How 


94     The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

could  she  know,  having  been  brought  up  so  carefully? 
After  all,  dogs  are  only  human." 

"You  actually  intend  to  keep  that " 

She  did  not  allow  him  to  pronounce  the  epithet  that 
was  forming  on  his  lips,  but  checked  it,  with 

"Certainly  I'll  keep  her.  She  is  still  a  one  man  dog. 
She  can  still  protect  me  from  kidnapers  and  burglars." 

He  threw  up  his  hands,  a  despairing  gesture. 

In  the  days  that  followed  hard  on  the  heels  of  Vio- 
let's disgrace,  Mr.  Pottle  had  little  time  to  think  of  dogs. 
More  pressing  cares  weighed  on  him.  The  Chicago 
men,  their  enthusiasm  cooling  when  no  longer  under 
the  spell  of  Mr.  Pottle's  arguments,  wrote  that  they 
guessed  that  at  this  time,  things  being  as  they  were, 
and  under  the  circumstances,  they  were  forced  to  regret 
that  they  could  not  make  his  shaving  cream,  but  might 
at  some  later  date  be  interested,  and  they  were  his  very 
truly.  The  bank  sent  him  a  frank  little  message  saying 
that  it  had  no  desire  to  go  into  the  barber  business,  but 
that  it  might  find  that  step  necessary  if  Mr.  Pottle  did 
not  step  round  rather  soon  with  a  little  donation  for  the 
loan  department. 

It  was  thoughts  of  this  cheerless  nature  that  kept  Mr. 
Pottle  tossing  uneasily  in  his  share  of  the  bed,  and  with 
wide-open,  worried  eyes  doing  sums  on  the  moonlit  ceil- 
ing. He  waited  the  morrow  with  numb  pessimism. 
For,  though  he  had  combed  the  town  and  borrowed  every 
cent  he  could  squeeze  from  friend  or  foe,  though  he  had 
pawned  his  favorite  case  of  razors,  he  was  three  hundred 
dollars  short  of  the  needed  amount.  Three  hundred 
dollars  is  not  much  compared  to  all  the  money  in  the 
world,  but  to  Mr.  Pottle,  on  his  bed  of  anxiety,  it  looked 
like  the  Great  Wall  of  China. 


Mr.  Pottle  and  the  One  Man  Dog    95 

He  heard  the  town  clock  boom  a  faint  two.  It  oc- 
curred to  him  that  there  was  something  singular,  odd, 
about  the  silence.  It  took  him  minutes  to  decide  what 
it  was.  Then  he  puzzled  it  out.  Violet  nee  Pershing 
was  not  barking.  It  was  her  invariable  custom  to  make 
harrowing  sounds  at  the  moon  from  ten  in  the  evening 
till  dawn.  He  had  learned  to  sleep  through  them,  even- 
tually. He  pointed  out  to  Blossom  that  a  dog  that  barks 
all  the  time  is  a  dooce  of  a  watch-dog,  and  she  pointed 
out  to  him  that  a  dog  that  barks  all  the  time  thus 
advertising  its  presence  and  its  ferocity,  would  be  cer- 
tain to  scare  off  midnight  prowlers.  He  wondered  why 
Violet  was  so  silent.  The  thought  skipped  through  his 
brain  that  perhaps  she  had  run  away,  or  been  poisoned, 
and  in  all  his  worry,  he  permitted  himself  a  faint  smile 
of  hope.  No,  he  thought,  I  was  born  unlucky.  There 
must  be  another  reason.  It  was  borne  into  his  brain 
cells  what  this  reason  must  be. 

Slipping  from  bed  without  disturbing  the  dormant 
Blossom,  he  crept  on  wary  bare  toes  from  the  room  and 
down  stairs.  Ever  so  faint  chinking  sounds  came  from 
the  dining  room.  With  infinite  caution  Mr.  Pottle  slid 
open  the  sliding  door  an  inch.  He  caught  his  breath. 

There,  in  a  patch  of  moonlight,  squatted  the  chunky 
figure  of  a  masked  man,  and  he  was  engaged  in  indus- 
triously wrapping  up  the  Pottle  silver  in  bits  of  cloth. 
Now  and  then  he  paused  in  his  labors  to  pat  caressingly 
the  head  of  Violet  who  stood  beside  him  watching  with 
fascinated  interest,  and  wagging  a  pleased  tail.  Mr. 
Pottle  was  clamped  to  his  observation  post  by  a  freezing 
fear.  The  busy  burglar  did  not  see  him,  but  Violet 
did,  and  pointing  her  bushel  of  bushy  head  at  him,  she 
let  slip  a  deep  "Grrrrrrrrrrr."  The  burglar  turned 
quickly,  and  a  moonbeam  rebounded  from  the  polished 


96      The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

steel  of  his  revolver  as  lie  leveled  it  at  a  place  where 
Mr.  Pottle's  heart  would  have  been  if  it  had  not  at  that 
precise  second  been  in  his  throat,  a  quarter  of  an  inch 
south  of  his  Adam's  apple. 

"Keep  'em  up,"  said  the  burglar,  "or  I'll  drill  you 
like  you  was  an  oil-well." 

Mr.  Pottle's  hands  went  up  and  his  heart  went  down. 
The  ultimate  straw  had  been  added ;  the  wedding  silver 
was  neatly  packed  in  the  burglar's  bag.  Mr.  Pottle  cast 
an  appealing  look  at  Violet  and  breathed  a  prayer  that 
in  his  dire  emergency  her  blue-blood  would  tell  and  she 
would  fling  herself  with  one  last  heroic  fling  at  the 
throat  of  the  robber.  Violet  returned  his  look  with  a 
stony  stare,  and  licked  the  free  hand  of  the  thief. 

A  thought  wave  rippled  over  Mr.  Pottle's  brain. 

"You  might  as  well  take  the  dog  with  you,  too," 
he  said. 

"Your  dog  ?"  asked  the  burglar,  gruffly. 

"Whose  else  would  it  be?" 

"Where'd  you  get  her?" 

"Raised  her  from  a  pup  up." 

"From  a  pup  up  ?" 

"Yes,  from  a  pup  up." 

The  robber  appeared  to  be  thinking. 

"She's  some  dog,"  he  remarked.  "I  never  seen  one 
just  like  her." 

For  the  first  time  in  the  existence  of  either  of  them, 
Mr.  Pottle  felt  a  faint  glow  of  pride  in  Violet. 

"She's  the  only  one  of  her  kind  in  the  world,"  he 
said. 

"I  believe  you,"  said  the  burglar.  "And  I  know  a 
thing  or  two  about  dogs,  too." 

"Really  ?"  said  Mr.  Pottle,  politely. 

"Yes,  I  do,"  said  the  burglar  and  a  sad  note  had 


Mr.  Pottle  and  the  One  Man  Dog-    97 

softened  the  gruffness  of  his  voice.  "I  used  to  be  a  dog 
trainer." 

"You  don't  tell  me?"  said  Mr.  Pottle. 

"Yes,"  said  the  burglar,  with  a  touch  of  pride,  "I 
had  the  swellest  dog  and  pony  act  in  big  time  vaudeville 
once." 

"Where  is  it  now  ?"    Mr.  Pottle  was  interested. 

"Mashed  to  bologny,"  said  the  burglar,  sadly.  "Train 
wreck.  Lost  every  single  animal.  Like  that."  He 
snapped  melancholy  fingers  to  illustrate  the  sudden  de- 
mise of  his  troupe.  "That's  why  I  took  to  this,"  he 
added.  "I  ain't  a  regular  crook.  Honest.  I  just  want 
to  get  together  enough  capital  to  start  another  show. 
Another  job  or  two  and  I'll  have  enough." 

Mr.  Pottle  looked  his  sympathy.  The  burglar  was 
studying  Violet  with  eyes  that  brightened  visibly. 

"If,"  he  said,  slowly,  "I  only  had  a  trick  dog  like 
her,  I  could  start  again.  She's  the  funniest  looking 
hound  I  ever  seen,  bar  none.  I  can  just  hear  the  audi- 
ences roaring  with  laughter."  He  sighed  reminiscently. 

"Take  her,"  said  Mr.  Pottle,  handsomely.  "She's 
yours." 

The  burglar  impaled  him  with  the  gimlet  eye  of  sus- 
picion. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  said.  "I  could  get  away  with  a  dog 
like  that,  couldn't  I  ?  You  couldn't  put  the  cops  on  my 
trail  if  I  had  a  dog  like  that  with  me,  oh,  no.  Why,  I 
could  just  as  easy  get  away  with  Pike's  Peak  or  a  flock 
of  Masonic  Temples  as  with  a  dog  as  different  looking 
as  her.  No,  stranger,  I  wasn't  born  yesterday." 

"I  won't  have  you  pinched,  I  swear  I  won't,"  said 
Mr.  Pottle  earnestly.  "Take  her.  She's  yours." 

The  burglar  resumed  the  pose  of  thinker. 

"Look  here,  stranger,"  he  said  at  length.    "Tell  you 


98      The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

what  I'll  do.  Just  to  make  the  whole  thing  fair  and 
square  and  no  questions  asked,  I'll  buy  that  dog  from 
you." 

"You'll  what  \n  Mr.  Pottle  articulated. 

"I'll  buy  her,"  repeated  the  burglar. 

Mr.  Pottle  was  incapable  of  replying. 

"Well,"  said  the  burglar,  "will  you  take  a  hundred 
for  her?" 

Mr.  Pottle  could  not  get  out  a  syllable. 

"Two  hundred,  then?"  said  the  burglar. 

"Make  it  three  hundred  and  she's  yours,"  said  Mr. 
Pottle. 

"Sold!"  said  the  burglar. 

When  morning  came  to  Granville,  Mr.  Pottle  waked 
his  wife  by  gently,  playfully,  fanning  her  pink  and 
white  cheek  with  three  bills  of  a  large  denomination. 

"Blossom,"  he  said,  and  the  smile  of  his  early  court- 
ing days  had  come  back,  "you  were  right.  Violet  was 
a  one  man  dog.  I  just  found  the  man." 


V:  Mr.  Pottle  and  Pageantry 


V:  Mr.  Pottle  and  Pageantry 

§1 

f  TTE  wouldn't  give  a  cent,"  announced  Mrs.  Pot- 
i    i    tie,  blotting  up  the  nucleus  of  a  tear  on  her 
cheek  with  the  tip  of  her  gloved  finger.  "  'Not 
one  red  cent,'  was  the  way  he  put  it." 

"What  did  you  want  a  red  cent  for,  honey  ?"  inquired 
Mr.  Pottle,  absently,  from  out  the  depths  of  the  sport- 
ing page.  "Who  wouldn't  give  you  a  red  cent  ?" 

"Old  Felix  Winterbottom,"  she  answered. 

Mr.  Pottle  put  down  his  paper. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you  tackled  old  frosty-face  Felix 
himself  ?"  he  demanded  with  interest  and  some  awe. 

"I  certainly  did,"  replied  his  wife.  "Right  in  his 
own  office." 

Her  spouse  made  no  attempt  to  conceal  his  admira- 
tion. 

"What  did  you  say;  then  what  did  he  say;  then  what 
did  you  say  ?"  he  queried. 

"I  was  very  polite,"  Mrs.  Pottle  answered,  "and  tact- 
ful. I  said  'See  here,  now,  Mr.  Winterbottom,  you  are 
the  richest  man  in  the  county,  and  yet  you  have  the 
reputation  of  being  the  most  careful  with  your 
money ' r 

"I'll  bet  that  put  him  in  a  good  humor,"  said  Mr. 
Pottle  in  a  murmured  aside. 

101 


102    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

"You  know  perfectly  well,  Ambrose,  that  old  Felix 
Winterbottom  is  never  in  a  good  humor,"  said  his  wife. 
"After  talking  with  him,  I  really  believe  the  story  that 
he  has  never  smiled  in  his  life.  Well,  anyhow,  I  said 
to  him,  'See  here  now,  Mr.  Winterbottom,  I'm  going 
to  give  you  a  chance  to  show  people  your  heart  is  in  the 
right  place,  after  all.  The  Day  Nursery  we  ladies  of 
the  Browning-Tagore  Club  of  Granville  are  starting 
needs  just  one  thousand  dollars.  Won't  you  let  me  put 
you  down  for  that  amount  ?' ' 

Mr.  Pottle  whistled. 

"Did  he  bite  you  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  thought  for  a  minute  he  was  going  to,"  admitted 
Mrs.  Pottle,  "and  then  he  said,  'Are  the  Gulicks  inter- 
ested in  this?'  I  said,  'Of  course,  they  are.  Mrs.  P. 
Bradley  Gulick  is  Chairman  of  the  Pink  Contribution 

Team,  and  Mrs.  Wendell  Gulick  is  Chairman ' 

'Stop,'  said  Mr.  Winterbottom,  giving  me  that  fishy 
look  of  his,  like  a  halibut  in  a  cake  of  ice,  'in  that  case, 
I  wouldn't  give  a  cent,  not  one  red  cent.  Good-day, 
Mrs.  Pottle.'  I  went." 

Mr.  Pottle  wagged  his  head  sententiously. 

"You'll  never  get  a  nickel  out  of  him  now,"  he  de- 
clared. "Never.  You  might  have  known  that  Felix 
Winterbottom  would  not  go  into  anything  the  Gulicks 
were  in.  And,"  added  Mr.  Pottle  thoughtfully,  "I 
can't  say  that  I  blame  old  Felix  much." 

"Ambrose!"  reproved  Mrs.  Pottle,  but  her  rebuke 
lacked  a  certain  whole-heartedness,  "The  Gulicks  are 
nice  people;  the  nicest  people  in  Granville." 

"That's  the  trouble  with  them,"  retorted  Mr.  Pottle, 
"they  never  let  you  forget  it.  That's  what  ails  this 
town;  too  much  Gulicks.  I'm  not  the  only  one  who 
thinks  so,  either." 


Mr.  Pottle  and  Pageantry       103 

She  did  not  attempt  rebuttal,  beyond  saying, 

"They're  our  oldest  family." 

"Bah,"  said  Mr.  Pottla  He  appeared  to  smolder, 
and  then  he  flamed  out, 

"Honest,  Blossom,  those  Gulicks  make  me  just  a 
little  bit  sick  to  the  stummick.  Just  because  some  an- 
cestor of  theirs  came  over  in  the  Mayflower,  and  be- 
cause some  other  ancestor  happened  to  own  the  farm 
this  town  was  built  on,  you'd  think  they  were  the  Duke 
of  Kackiack,  or  something.  The  town  grew  up  and 
made  'em  rich,  but  what  did  they  ever  do  for  the 
town  ?" 

"Well,"  began  Mrs.  Pottle,  more  for  the  sake  of  de- 
bate than  from  conviction,  "there's  Gulick  Avenue,  and 
Gulick  Street,  and  Gulick  Park " 

"Oh,  they  give  their  name  freely  enough,"  said  Mr. 
Pottle.  "But  what  did  they  give  to  the  Day  Nursery 
fund?" 

"They  did  disappoint  me,"  Mrs.  Pottle  admitted. 
"They  only  gave  fifty  dollars,  which  isn't  much  for 
the  second  wealthiest  family  in  town,  but  Mrs.  P.  Brad- 
ley Gulick  said  we  could  put  her  name  at  the  head  of 
the  list " 

Mr.  Pottle's  affable  features  attained  an  almost  sar- 
donic look. 

"Oho,"  he  said,  pointedly.    "Oho." 

He  flamed  up  again, 

"That's  exactly  the  amount  those  pirates  added  to 
the  rent  of  my  barber  shop,"  he  stated,  and  then,  pas- 
sion seething  in  his  ordinarily  amiable  bosom,  he  went 
on,  "A  fine  lot,  they  are,  to  be  snubbing  a  self-made  man 
like  Felix  Winterbottom,  and  turning  up  their  thin, 
blue  noses  at  Felix  Winterbottom's  tannery." 

"Ambrose,"  said  his  wife,  with  lifted  blonde  eye- 


104    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

brows,  "please  don't  make  suggestive  jokes  in  my 
presence." 

"Honey  swat  key  Molly  pants,"  returned  Mr.  Pottle 
with  a  touch  of  bellicosity.  "It's  no  worse  than  other 
tanneries;  and  it's  the  biggest  in  the  state.  Those 
Gulicks  give  me  a  pain,  I  tell  you.  You  can't  pick  up 
a  paper  without  reading,  'Mr.  P.  Bradley  Gulick,  one 
of  our  leading  citizens,  unveiled  a  tablet  in  the  Gulick 
Hook  and  Ladder  Company  building  yesterday  in 
honor  of  his  ancestor,  Saul  Gulick,  one  of  the  pioneers 
who  hewed  our  great  state  out  of  the  wilderness,  and 
whose  cider-press  stood  on  the  ground  now  occupied  by 
the  hook  and  ladder  company.'  Or  'Mrs.  Wendell 
Gulick  read  a  paper  before  the  Society  of  Descendants 
of  Officers  Above  the  Rank  of  Captain  on  General 
Washington's  Staff  on  the  heroic  part  played  by  her 
ancestor,  Major  Noah  Gulick,  at  the  battle  of  Saratoga,' 
If  it  isn't  that  it's  'The  Spinning  Wheel  Club  met  at 
Mrs.  Gulick's  palatial  residence  to  observe  the  anniver- 
sary of  the  birth  of  Phineas  Gulick,  the  first  red-headed 
baby  born  in  Massachusetts.'  Bah,  is  what  I  say,  Bah !" 

He  seethed  and  bubbled  and  broke  out  again. 

"You'd  think  to  hear  them  blow  that  the  Gulicks 
discovered  ancestors  and  had  'em  patented.  I  guess  the 
Pottles  had  an  ancestor  or  two.  Even  Felix  Winter- 
bottom  had  ancestors." 

"Probably  haddocks,"  said  Mrs.  Pottle  coldly.  "He 
can  keep  his  old  red  cents. " 

"He  will,  never  fear,"  her  husband  assured  her. 
"After  the  way  he  and  his  family  have  been  treated  by 
the  Gulicks,  I  don't  blame  him." 

Mrs.  Pottle  pumped  up  a  sigh  from  the  depths  of  a 
deep  bosom  and  sank  tearfully  to  a  divan. 

"And  I'd  set  my  heart  on  it,"  she  sobbed. 


Mr.  Pottle  and  Pageantry       105 

"What,  dear?" 

"The  Day  Nursery.  And  it's  to  fail  for  want  of  a 
miserable  thousand  dollars." 

"Don't  speak  disrespectfully  of  a  thousand  dollars, 
Blossom,"  Mr.  Pottle  enjoined  his  spouse.  "That's 
five  thousand  shaves.  And  don't  expect  me  to  give 
anything  more.  You  know  perfectly  well  the  barber- 
business  is  not  what  it  used  to  be.  I  can't  give  an- 
other red  cent." 

Mrs.  Pottle  sniffed. 

"Who  asked  you  for  your  red  cents?"  she  inquired, 
with  spirit.  "I'll  make  the  money  myself." 

"You,  Blossom?" 

"Yes.    Me." 

"But  how?" 

She  rose  majestically ;  determination  was  in  her  pose, 
and  the  light  of  inspiration  was  in  her  bright  blue  eyes. 

"We'll  give  a  pageant,"  she  announced. 

"A  pageant  ?"  Mr.  Pottle  showed  some  dismay.  "A 
show,  Blossom?" 

"Evidently,"  she  said,  "you  have  not  read  your  en- 
cyclopedia under  'P.' ' 

"I'm    only    as    far    as    'ostriches/'1    he   answered, 

humbly. 

"  <A  pageant,'  "  she  quoted,  "  'is  an  elaborate  exhi- 
bition or  spectacle,  a  series  of  stately  tableaux  or  living 
pictures,  frequently  historic,  and  often  with  poetic 
spoken  interludes.' ' 

"Ah,"    beamed    Mr.    Pottle,    nodding    understand- 

ingly,  "a  circus!" 

"Not  in  the  least,  Ambrose.  Does  your  mind  never 
soar  ?  A  pageant  is  a  very  beautiful  and  serious  thing, 
with  lots  of  lovely  costumes,  hundreds  of  people,  horses, 


Io6    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Petnpon 

historic  scenes "  she  broke  off  suddenly.  "When 

was  Granville  founded  ?" 

He  told  her.    Her  eyes  sparkled. 

"Wonderful,"  she  cried.  "This  year  it  will  be;  two 
hundred  years  old.  We'll  give  an  historic  pageant — 
the  Growth  of  Civilization  in  Granville." 

"It  sounds  expensive/'  objected  Mr.  Pottle. 

"Don't  be  sordid,  Ambrose,"  said  his  wife. 

"I'm  not  sordid,  Blossom,"  he  returned.  "I'm  a 
practical  man.  I  know  these  kermesses  and  feats.  My 
cousin  Julia  Onderdonk  got  up  a  pageant  in  Peoria 
once  and  now  she  hasn't  a  friend  in  the  place.  Besides 
it  only  netted  fourteen  dollars  for  the  Bide-a-wee  Home. 
!Nbw,  honey,  why  not  give  a  good,  old-fashioned  chicken 
supper  in  the  church  hall,  with  perhaps  a  minstrel 
show  afterward  ?  That  would  get  my  money " 

"Chicken  supper!  Minstrel  show!  Oh,  Ambrose." 
His  wife's  snort  was  the  acme  of  refinement.  "Have 
you  no  soul  ?  This  pageant  will  be  an  inspiring  thing. 
It  will  make  for,  I  might  almost  say  militate  for,  a 
community  spirit,  Other  communities  give  pageant 
after  pageant.  Shall  Granville  lag  behind?  Here  is 
a  chance  for  a  real  community  get-together.  Here  is 
•a  chance  to  give  our  young  people  the  wonderful  his- 
tory of  their  native  town " 

"And  also  a  chance  for  all  the  Gulick  tribe  to  parade 
around  in  colonial  clothes  with  spinning  wheels  under 
their  arms,"  put  in  Mr.  Pottle. 

"I'm  afraid  we  can't  avoid  that,"  admitted  his  wife, 
ruefully.  "After  all,  they  are  our  oldest  family." 

She  meditated. 

"I  suppose,"  she  mused,  "that  Mrs.  P.  Bradley 
Gulick  would  have  to  be  the  Spirit  of  Progress " 


Mr.  Pottle  and  Pageantry       107 

"Progress  shouldn't  be  fat  and  wall-eyed,"  inter- 
posed Mr.  Pottle.  She  ignored  this. 

"And  I  suppose  that  odious  freckled  daughter  of  hers 
would  have  to  be  the  Spirit  of  Liberty  or  Civilization 
or  something  important,  and  I  suppose  that  pompous 
Mr.  Gulick  would  have  to  be  the  Pioneer  Spirit — still, 
I  think  it  could  be  managed.  Now,  you,  Ambrose, 
can  be " 

"I  don't  want  to  be  the  spirit  of  anything,"  he  de- 
clared. "Count  me  out,  Blossom." 

Mrs.  Pottle  assumed  a  hurt  pout. 

"For  my  sake?"  she  said. 

"I'm  no  actor,"  he  stated. 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  you  to  act,"  she  said.  "You're 
to  be  treasurer." 

He  wrinkled  up  his  nose  and  brow  into  a  frown. 

"The  dirty  work,"  he  exclaimed.  "That's  the  way 
the  world  over.  Us  Pottles  do  the  dirty  work  and  the 
Gulicks  get  the  glory.  No,  Blossom,  no,  no,  no." 

An  appealing  tear,  and  another,  stole  down  her  pink 
cheek. 

"Mr.  Gallup  wouldn't  have  treated  me  that  way," 
she  said.  Mr.  Gallup  had  been  her  first  husband. 

Mr.  Pottle  knew  resistance  was  futile. 

"Oh,  all  right.     I'll  be  treasurer." 

She  smiled.    "Now  one  more  tiny  favor  ?" 

"Well?" 

"I  want  you  to  be  the  Spirit  of  History  and  read 
the  historic  epilogue." 

"Me  ?    I'm  no  spirit.    I'm  a  boss  barber." 

"Well,  if  you  don't  take  the  job,  I  suppose  I  can 
get  one  of  the  Gulicks." 

He  considered  a  second. 


io8    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

"All  right,"  he  said.  "I'll  be  the  Spirit  of  History. 
But  understand  one  thing,  right  here  and  now:  I  will 
not  wear  tights." 

She  conceded  him  that  point. 

"Say,"  he  asked,  struck  by  a  thought,  "how  do  you 
know  what  spirits  are  going  to  be  in  this?  Who  is 
going  to  write  this  thing,  anyhow?" 

"I  am,"  said  Mrs.  Pottle. 


§2 

"It's  not  decent,"  objected  Mr.  Pottle  fervidly. 
"How  can  I  keep  the  respect  of  the  community  if  I  go 
round  like  this?" 

He  indicated  his  pink  knees,  which  blushed  like 
spring  rosebuds  beneath  a  somewhat  nebulous  toga  of 
cheesecloth. 

"If  I  can't  wear  pants,  I  don't  want  to  be  the  Spirit 
of  History,"  he  added. 

"For  the  fifth  and  last  time,"  said  the  tired  and 
harassed  voice  of  Mrs.  Pottle,  "you  cannot  wear  pants. 
Spirits  never  do.  That  settles  it.  Not  another  word, 
Ambrose.  Haven't  I  trouble  enough  without  my  own 
husband  adding  to  it?" 

She  pressed  her  brow  as  if  it  ached.  Piles  of  cos- 
tumes, mostly  tinsel  and  cheesecloth,  shields,  toma- 
hawks, bridles  and  bits  of  scenery  were  strewn  about 
the  Pottle  parlor.  She  sank  into  a  Morris  chair,  and 
stitched  fiercely  at  an  angel's  wing.  Her  eyes  were 
the  eyes  of  one  at  bay. 

"It's  been  one  thing  after  another,"  she  declaimed. 
"Those  Gulicks  are  making  my  life  miserable.  And 
just  now  I  had  a  note  from  Etta  Kunkle's  mother  say- 


Mr.  Pottle  and  Pageantry       109 

ing  that  if  in  the  Masque  of  the  Fruits  and  Flowers  of 
Botts  County  her  little  Etta  has  to  be  an  onion  while 
little  Gertrude  Crump  is  a  violet,  she  won't  lend  us 
that  white  horse  for  the  Paul  Revere's  Ride  Scene.  So 
I  had  to  make  that  hateful  stupid  child  of  hers  a  violet 
and  change  Gertrude  Crump  to  an  onion  and  now  Mrs. 
Crump  is  mad  and  won't  let  any  of  her  children  appear 
in  the  pageant." 

"Well,"  remarked  Mr.  Pottle,  "I  don't  see  why  you 
had  to  have  Paul  Revere's  Ride  anyhow.  He  didn't 
ride  all  the  way  out  here  to  Ohio,  did  he  ?" 

"I  know  he  didn't,"  she  replied,  tartly,  "I  didn't 
want  to  put  him  in.  But  Mrs.  Gulick  insisted.  She 
said  it  was  her  ancestor,  Elijah  Gulick,  who  lent  PauT 
Revere  the  horse.  That's  why  I  have  to  have  Paul 
Revere  stop  in  the  middle  of  his  ride  and  say, 

"Gallant  stallion,  swift  and  noble, 
Lent  me  by  my  good  friend  Gulick, 
Patriot,  scholar,  king  of  horsemen, 
Speed  ye,  speed  yet  speed  ye  onward!" 

Mr.  Pottle  groaned. 

"Is  there  anything  in  American  history  the  Gulicks 
didn't  have  a  hand  in  ?"  he  asked.  "But  say,  Blossom, 
that  horse  of  the  Runkle's  is  no  gallant  stallion.  She's 
the  one  Matt  Runkle  uses  on  his  milk  route.  Every 
one  in  town  knows  Agnes." 

"I  can't  help  it,"  said  Mrs.  Pottle  wearily.  "Wen- 
dell Gulick,  Jr.,  who  plays  Paul  Revere,  insisted  on 
having  a  white  horse,  and  Agnes  was  the  only  one  I 
could  get." 

"They're  the  insistingest  people  I  ever  knew,"  ob- 
served Mr.  Pottle. 


HO    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

His  wife  gave  out  the  saddest  sound  in  the  world, 
the  short  sob  of  thwarted  authorship. 

"They've  just  about  ruined  my  pageant,"  she  said. 
"Mrs.  Gulick  insisted  on  having  that  battle  between 
the  settlers  and  the  Indians  just  because  a  great,  great 
uncle  of  hers  was  in  it.  I  didn't  want  anything  rough 
like  that  in  my  pageant.  Besides  it  happened  in  the 
next  county,  and  the  true  facts  are  that  the  Indiana 
chased  the  settlers  fourteen  miles,  and  scalped  three 
of  them.  Of  course  it  wouldn't  do  to  show  a  Gulick 
running  from  an  Indian,  so  she  insisted  that  I  change 
history  around  and  make  the  settlers  win  the  battle. 
!N"one  of  the  nice  young  men  were  willing  to  be  Indians 
and  be  chased,  so  I  had  to  hire  a  tough  young  fellow 
named  Brannigan — I  believe  they  call  him  'Beansy' — 
and  nine  other  young  fellows  from  the  horseshoe  works 
to  play  Indian  at  fifty  cents  apiece." 

Mr.  Pottle  looked  anxious. 

"I  know  that  Beansy  Brannigan,"  he  said.  "How  is 
that  gang  behaving?" 

"Oh,  pretty  well.  But  ten  Indians  at  fifty  cents  an 
Indian  is  five  dollars,  and  we  c-can't  afford  it." 

She  was  tearful  again. 

"Already  the  costumes  have  cost  four  hundred  dollars 
and  more.  We'll  be  lucky  to  make  expenses  if  the 
Gulicks  keep  on  putting  in  expensive  scenes,"  she 
moaned. 

She  busied  herself  with  the  angel's  wing,  then  paused 
to  ask,  "Ambrose,  have  you  learned  your  historical 
epilogue  ?" 

For  answer  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  wrapped  his  cheese- 
cloth toga  about  him,  struck  a  Ciceronian  attitude,  and 
said  loudly: 


Mr.  Pottle  and  Pageantry       in 

"Who  am  I,  oh  list'ning  peoples? 
His' try's  spirit,  stern  and  truthful! 
Come  I  here  to  tell  you  fully, 
Of  our  Granville's  thrilling  story, 
How  Saul  and  other  noble  Gulicks, 
And  a  few  who  shall  be  nameless, 
Hewed  a  city  from  the  forests, 
Blazed  the  way  for  civ'lization." 

"Stop,"  cried  Mrs.  Pottle.  "I  can't  bear  to  hear 
another  word  about  those  Gulicks.  You  know  it  well 
enough." 

"There  are  a  few  things  I  wish  I  could  have  put 
in,"  remarked  Mr.  Pottle,  wistfully. 

His  tone  made  her  look  up  with  quick  interest. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  she  inquired. 

"Oh,  I  found  out  a  thing  or  two,"  he  replied,  "when 
I  was  down  at  the  capital  last  week.  I  happened  to 
drop  into  the  state  historical  society's  library  and  run, 
over  some  old  records. 

He  chuckled. 

"P.  Bradley  Gulick  told  me  I  didn't  have  to  go 
down  there  to  get  the  facts.  He'd  give  them  to  me,  he 
said.  So  he  did.  Some  of  them." 

"Ambrose,  what  do  you  mean?" 

"Oh,  nothing.  All  I  will  say  is  this:  I'm  a  patient 
man  and  can  be  pestered  a  lot,  but  just  let  one  of  these 
Gulicks  pester  me  a  little  too  much  one  of  these  days, 
and  I'll  rear  up  on  my  hind  legs,  that's  all." 

There  was  a  glint  in  his  eye,  and  she  saw  it. 

"Ambrose,"  she  said,  "if  you  do  anything  to  spoil 
my  pageant,  I'll  never  forgive  you." 

He  snorted. 

"Your  pageant  ?    It's  just  as  I  said  it  would  be.    We 


112    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

Pottles  will  do  the  dirty  work  and  the  Gulicks  will 
grab  the  glory.  They've  behaved  so  piggish  that  every- 
body in  town  is  sore  at  them,  and  I  don't  see  how  the 
pageant  is  going  to  come  out  on  top.  You'd  probably 
have  gotten  that  thousand  from  old  Felix  Winterbottom 
if  it  hadn't  been  for  them.  Then  you  wouldn't  have 
to  be  losing  a  pound  a  day  over  this  pageant.  Now  if 
you'd  only  gotten  up  a  nice  old-fashioned  chicken  sup- 
per, and  a  minstrel  show " 

" Ambrose !    Go  put  on  your  trousers !" 

§3 

Despite  Mr.  Pottle's  pessimistic  predictions,  there 
was  not  a  vacant  seat  or  an  unused  cubic  foot  of  air  in 
the  Granville  Opera  House  that  clinging  Spring  night, 
when  the  asbestos  curtain,  tugged  by  tyro  hands, 
jerkily  ascended  on  the  prologue  of  the  Grand  Histori- 
cal Pageant  of  the  Growth  of  Civilization  in  Granville 
for  the  Benefit  of  the  Browning-Tagore  Club's  Day 
Nursery.  Those  who  did  not  have  relatives  in  the  cast 
appeared  to  have  been  lured  thither  by  a  certain  morbid 
curiosity  as  to  what  a  pageant  was.  Their  faces  said 
plainly  that  they  were  prepared  for  anything. 

After  the  orchestra  had  raced  through  "Poet  and 
Peasant,"  with  the  cornet  winning  by  a  comfortable 
margin,  Mrs.  P.  Bradley  Gulick,  somewhat  short  of 
breath  and  rendered  doubly  wall-eyed  by  an  inexpert 
make-up,  appeared  in  red,  white  and  blue  cheese-cloth, 
and  announced  in  a  high  voice  that  she  was  the  Spirit 
of  Progress  and  would  look  on  with  a  kindly,  encour- 
aging eye  while  history's  storied  page  was  turned  and 
spread  before  them,  and,  she  added,  in  properly  poetic 
language,  she  would  tell  them  what  it  was  all  about. 


Mr.  Pottle  and  Pageantry       113 

The  audience  gave  her  the  applause  due  the  dowager 
of  the  town's  leading  family,  and  not  one  hand-clap 
more.  Mr.  P.  Bradley  Gulick,  bony  but  impressive, 
in  a  Grecian  robe,  appeared  and  proclaimed  that  he  was 
the  Spirit  of  Civilization.  A  Ballet  of  the  "Waters  fol- 
lowed, and  as  a  climax,  Evelyn  Gulick,  age  thirteen,  in 
appropriate  green  gauze,  announced: 

"Who  am  I,  oh  friends  and  neighbors? 
I'm  the  Spirit  of  the  Waters, 
Lordly,  swift,  Monongahela; 
Argosies  float  on  my  bosom " 

She  tapped  her  narrow  chest,  and  a  look  of  horror 
crept  into  her  face ;  her  mind  seemed  to  be  groping  for 
something.  Tremulously  she  repeated, 

"Argosies  float  on  my  bosom." 

The  voice  of  Mrs.  Pottle  prompted  from  the  wings, 
"And  fleets  of  ships  with  treasures  laden." 

Evelyn  clutched  at  the  sound,  but  it  slipped  from 
her,  and  she  wildly  began, 

"Argosies  float  on  my  bosom  (Slap,  slap) 
And  sheeps  of  flits — and  sheeps  of  flits -" 


She  burst  into  tears,  and  turning  a  spiteful  face 
toward  one  of  the  boxes,  she  cried, 

"You  stop  making  faces  at  me,  Jessie  Winter- 
bottom." 

Then  she  fled  to  the  wings. 

This  served  to  bring  to  the  attention  of  the  audience 


114    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

the  fact  that  a  strange  thing  had  happened :  Felix  Win- 
terbottom  and  his  family  had  come  to  the  pageant.  He 
was  there,  concealed  as  far  as  possible  by  the  red  plush 
curtains  of  the  box,  defiant  and  forbidding.  From  the 
glance  he  now  and  then  cast  at  the  decollete  back  of  his 
wife,  it  was  evident  that  he  had  not  come  voluntarily. 

Mrs.  Pottle,  in  the  wings,  bit  a  newly  manicured 
fingernail. 

"I  begged  Mrs.  Gulick  to  make  that  dumb  child  of 
hers  learn  her  part/'  she  whispered  wrathfully  to  her 
husband. 

"Mrs.  Gulick  says  it's  your  fault  for  not  prompting 
loud  enough,"  said  Mr.  Pottle. 

"She  did,  did  she?"  Mrs.  Pottle  assumed  what  is 
known  in  ring  circles  as  a  fighting  face. 

"I  can't  stand  much  more  of  their  pestering,"  said 
Mr.  Pottle  darkly. 

"Ssssh,"  said  his  wife.  "The  Paul  Revere  scene  ia 
going  to  start." 

In  the  wings,  Wendell  Gulick,  Junior,  was  making 
ready  to  mount  his  charger.  The  charger,  as  he  had 
specified,  was  white,  peculiarly  white,  for  it  had  been 
found  necessary  at  the  last  moment  to  conceal  some 
harness  stains  by  powdering  her  liberally  with  crushed 
lilac  talcum.  Agnes  looked  resentful  but  resigned. 
Mr.  Gulick,  Junior,  was  a  plump  young  man,  with, 
nose-glasses,  and  satisfied  lips,  who  had  the  distinction 
of  being  the  only  person  in  Granville  who  had  ever 
ridden  to  hounds.  He  cultivated  a  horsey  atmosphere, 
wore  a  riding  crop  pin  in  his  tie,  and  was  admittedly 
the  local  authority  on  things  equine.  He  looked  most 
formidable  in  hip-high  leathern  boots,  a  continental 
garb,  and  a  powdered  wig.  It  was  regretable  that  the 
steed  did  not  measure  up  to  her  rider.  Save  for  being 


Mr.  Pottle  and  Pageantry       115 

approximately  white,  Agnes  had  little  to  recommend 
her  for  the  role.  She  had  one  of  those  long,  sad, 
philosophic  faces,  and  she  appeared  to  be  considerably 
taller  in  the  hips  than  in  the  shoulders.  She  had  a 
habit  of  looking  back  over  her  shoulder  with  a  sur- 
prised expression,  as  if  she  missed  her  milk  wagon. 

Encouraged  by  a  slap  on  the  flank  from  a  stage-hand, 
Agnes  advanced  to  the  center  of  the  stage  at  a  brisk, 
business-like  trot,  and  there  stopped,  and  nodded  to  the 
audience. 

"Whoa,  Agnes,"  shouted  some  bad  little  boy  in  the 
gallery. 

Young  Mr.  Gulick,  in  the  role  of  Paul  Eevere,  af- 
fected to  pat  his  mount's  head,  and  in  a  voice  of  thun- 
der, roared: 

"Gallant  stallion,  swift  and  nolle" 

Agnes  reached  out  a  long  neck  and  nibbled  at  the 
scenery. 

"Lent  me  by  my  good  friend,  Gulick," 

Agnes  looked  over  her  shoulder  and  smiled  at  her 
rider. 

"Patriot,  scholar,  Icing  of  horsemen," 
Agnes  scratched  herself  heartily  on  a  property  rock. 
"Speed  ye,  speed  ye,  speed  ye  onward!" 

The  business  of  the  scene  called  for  a  spirited  exit 
by  Paul  Eevere,  waving  his  cocked  hat.  But  Agnes 
had  other  plans.  She  liked  the  taste  of  scenery.  She 


Ii6    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

did  not  budge.  In  vain  did  the  scion  of  the  Gulicks 
beat  with  frantic  heels  upon  her  flat  flanks. 

"Speed  ye  onward,  or  we'll  be  late,"  he  improvised 
cleverly. 

She  masticated  a  canvas  leaf  from  a  convenient  shrub 
and  did  not  speed  onward. 

"Gid-ap,  Agnes/'  shrilled  the  boy  in  the  gallery. 
"The  folks  is  waitin'  for  their  milk." 

The  audience  grew  indecorous. 

Even  his  ruddy  make-up  could  not  conceal  the  fact 
that  Mr.  Wendell  Gulick,  Junior,  was  very  red  in  the 
face,  and  that  his  lips  were  forming  words  not  in  that, 
or  any  other  pageant.  His  leathern  heels  boomed  hol- 
lowly on  Agnes's  barrel  of  body.  To  ring  down  the 
curtain  was  impossible;  Agnes  had  taken  her  place 
directly  beneath  it. 

Paul  Revere  turned  a  passionate  face  to  the  wings, 

"Hey,  Pottle,"  he  bellowed,  "why  don't  you  do 
something  instead  of  standing  there  grinning  like  a 
baboon?" 

Thus  charged,  Mr.  Pottle's  toga-clad  figure  came 
nimbly  from  the  wings,  to  great  applause,  and  seized 
Agnes  by  the  bridle.  Pottle  tugged  lustily.  Agnes 
smiled  and  did  not  give  way  an  inch. 

"Send  for  Matt  Runkle,"  hissed  Mr.  Gulick,  Junior. 

"Send  for  Matt  Runkle,"  echoed  Mr.  Pottle. 

"Send  for  Matt  Runkle,"  cried  voices  in  the  audience. 

"He's  home  in  bed,"  wailed  Mrs.  Pottle  from  the 
wings. 

"Get  one  of  the  Runkle  kids,"  shouted  Mr.  Pottle, 
seeking  to  arouse  Agnes  with  kicks  of  his  sandal-shod 
feet. 

Little  Etta  Runkle,  partly  clad  in  the  tinsel  and 
cheese-cloth  of  a  violet,  and  partly  in  her  everyday  un- 


Mr.  Pottle  and  Pageantry       117 

derwear,  was  fetched  from  a  dressing  room.  She  was 
a  bright  child  and  sensed  the  situation  as  soon  as  it  had 
been  explained  to  her  twice. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "Pa  always  says  Agnes  won't  start 
unless  you  clink  two  milk  bottles  together." 

The  audience  was  calling  forth  suggestions  to  Paul 
Revere,  astride,  and  Pottle,  on  foot.  They  included  a 
bonfire  beneath  Agnes,  and  dynamite.  Even  the  rock- 
bound  face  of  old  Felix  Winterbottom,  in  the  depths  of 
the  box,  showed  the  vestige  of  a  crease  that  might,  with 
a  little  imagination,  be  considered  the  start  of  a  smile. 

A  fevered  search  back  stage  netted  two  bottles,  dusty 
and  smelling  of  turpentine  and  gin,  respectively.  Mr. 
Pottle  grasped  their  necks  and  clinked  them  together 
with  resounding  clinks.  The  effect  on  Agnes  was  elec- 
trical. From  utter  immobility  she  started  with  a 
startled  hop.  The  unready  Mr.  Gulick,  Junior,  after 
one  mad  grasp  at  her  mane,  rolled  ignominiously  from1 
her  broad  back,  and  landed  on  the  stage  in  a  position 
that  was  undignified  for  a  Eevere  and  positively  pain- 
ful for  a  Gulick.  Agnes  bolted  to  the  wings.  The 
curtain  darted  down. 

The  audience  seemed  to  take  this  occurrence  in  a 
spirit  of  levity,  but  not  so  Mrs.  Pottle.  Hot  tears 
gathered  in  her  eyes. 

"That  wretch  would  have  a  white  horse,"  she  said. 
"They  would  put  Paul  Revere's  Ride  in.  Now  look. 
Now  look!" 

"There,  there,  honey,"  said  ^Ir.  Pottle,  between 
sympathetic  teeth.  "We'll  fix  'em." 

The  pageant  pursued  its  more  or  less  majestic  way, 
but  as  the  history  of  Granville  was  unfolded,  scene 
upon  scene,  it  became  all  too  apparent  to  Mrs.  Pottle 
that  her  poetic  opus  could  not  recapture  the  first  serious 


Il8    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

mood  of  the  audience.  It  positively  jeered  when  Miss 
Eltruda  Gulick  announced  that  she  was  the  Spirit  of 
the  Bogardus  Canal.  But  it  grew  more  interested  as 
the  curtain  slid  up  on  the  battle  scene.  This,  Mrs. 
Pottle  felt,  was  her  dramatic  masterpiece.  There  lay 
the  peaceful  pioneer  settlement — artfully  fashioned 
from  pasteboard — while  the  simple  but  virile  settlers 
strolled  up  and  down  the  embryo  Main  Street  and  ex- 
changed couplets.  The  chief  settler,  an  adipose  young 
man  with  a  lisp,  was  Mr.  Gurnee  Gulick,  until  then 
noted  as  the  most  adept  practitioner  of  the  modern 
dance-steps  in  that  part  of  Ohio.  Through  a  beard,  he 
announced,  falsetto, 

"I  give  thee  greeting,  neighbor  Gulick, 
Upon  this  blossom-burgeoning  morning, 
I  trust  'tis  not  the  wily  red-skin 
I  just  heard  whooping  in  the  forest." 

His  trust  was  misplaced.  It  was,  indeed,  the  wily 
red-skin  in  the  persons  of  Mr.  Edward  Brannigan — 
known  to  intimates  as  "Beansy,"  and  nine  of  his  fel- 
low horseshoe  makers  who  had  been  hired  to  imper- 
sonate red-men,  in  rather  loose-fitting  brown  cotton 
skins.  Mr.  Brannigan  and  fellow  red-skins  had  done 
their  part  dutifully  at  rehearsals,  and  had  permitted 
themselves  to  be  knocked  down,  cuffed  about  a  bit,  and 
finally  put  to  inglorious  rout  by  the  settlers.  But  on 
the  fateful  night  of  the  pageant,  while  waiting  for  their 
turn  to  appear,  they  had  passed  the  moments  with  a  jug 
of  cider  that  was  standing  with  reluctant  feet  at  that 
high  point  in  its  career  where  it  has  ceased  to  be  sweet 
and  has  not  yet  become  vinegar.  That  was  no  reason 
why  they  should  not  do  their  part,  for  it  was  not  an 


Mr.  Pottle  and  Pageantry       119 

intricate  one.  They  were  to  rush  on,  with  whoops,  be 
annihilated,  and  retire  in  confusion. 

They  did  rush  on  with  whoops  that  left  nothing  to 
be  desired  from  the  standpoint  of  realism.  Mrs.  Pottle, 
tense  in  the  wings,  was  congratulating  herself  that  one 
scene  at  least  had  dramatic  strength.  It  was  at  this 
moment  that  Mr.  Brannigan,  as  Chief  Winipasuki, 
sachem  of  the  Algonquins,  encountered  Mr.  Gulick,  the 
principal  settler.  In  his  enthusiasm,  Mr.  Gulick  over- 
acted his  part.  He  smote  the  redskin  warrior  so  ear- 
nestly on  the  ear  that  Mr.  Brannigan  described  a  para- 
bola and  dented  a  papier-mache  rock  with  his  hundred 
and  seventy  pounds  of  muscular  body.  His  part  called 
for  him  to  lie  there,  prone  and  impotent,  while  the 
settlers  drove  off  his  band. 

It  may  have  been  a  sudden  rebellion  of  a  proud 
spirit.  It  may  have  been  the  wraith  of  history  in  pro- 
test; it  may  have  been  an  inherently  perverse  nature; 
or  it  may  have  been  the  cider.  In  any  event,  Chief 
Winipasuki  got  to  his  feet,  war-whooped,  and  knocked 
the  principal  settler  through  the  paste-board  wall  of 
the  block-house.  Those  in  the  audience  who  were  fond 
of  realism  enjoyed  what  ensued  immensely.  The  set- 
tlers of  the  town,  who  were  the  nice  young  men,  and 
the  Indians,  who  were  not  so  nice  but  were  strong  and 
willing,  had  at  one  another,  and  although  they  had  only 
nature's  weapons,  the  battle,  as  it  waged  up  and  down 
and  back  and  through  the  shattered  scenery,  was  stir- 
ring enough.  When  the  curtain  was  at  last  brought 
down,  Chief  Winipasuki  had  a  half-nelson  on  Settler 
Gulick,  who  was  calling  in  a  loud  penetrating  voice  for 
the  police. 

In  all  the  hub-bub  and  confusion,  in  all  the  delirium 
of  the  audience,  Mr.  Pottle  remained  calm  enough  to 


120    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

note  that  a  miracle  had  taken  place ;  Kr.  Felix  "Winter- 
bottom  was  chuckling.  It  was  a  dry,  unpracticed 
chuckle  at  best,  but  it  was  a  chuckte,  nevertheless.  Mr. 
Pottle  was  observing  the  phenomenon  with  wide  eyes 
when  he  felt  his  elbow  angrily  plucked. 

"You're  to  blame  for  this.  Pottle,"  rasped  a  voice. 
It  was  Gurnee  Gulick's  irate  father. 

"Me?"  sputtered  Mr.  Pottle. 

"Yes.  You.  You  knew  those  ruffians  had  been 
drinking." 

"I  did  not." 

"Don't  contradict  me,  you  miserable  little  hair-cut- 
ting fool." 

"What?    How  dare  you "  began  Mr.  Pottle. 

"Bah.  You  wart!"  said  Mr.  Gulick,  and  turned  his 
square  yard  of  fat  back  on  the  incensed  little  man. 

Mr.  Pottle  was  taking  a  step  after  him  as  if  he  in- 
tended to  leap  up  and  sink  his  teeth  into  the  back  of 
Mr.  Gulick's  overflowing  neck,  when  another  hand 
clutched  him.  It  was  his  wife. 

Her  face  was  white  and  tear-stained,  her  lip 
quivering. 

"They've  ruined  it,  they've  ruined  it,"  she  exclaimed. 
"I  warned  that  simpleton  Gurnee  Gulick  not  to  be  rough 
with  those  horseshoe  boys.  Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear."  She 
pillowed  her  brimming  eyes  in  his  toga-draped  shoulder. 

"You've  got  to  go  out,  now,"  she  sobbed,  "and  give 
the  historical  epilogue." 

"Never,"  said  Mr.  Pottle.    "A  thousand  nevers." 

"Please,  Ambrose.     We've  got  to  end  it,  somehow." 

"Very  well,"  announced  Mr.  Pottle.  "I'll  go.  But 
mind  you,  Blossom  Pottle,  I  won't  be  responsible  for 
what  I  say." 

"Neither  will  I,"  sobbed  his  spouse. 


Mr.  Pottle  and  Pageantry       121 

Mr.  Pottle  hitched  his  toga  about  him,  and  strode 
out  on  the  stage.  There  was  some  applause,  but  more 
titters.  He  held  up  his  hand  for  silence,  as  orators  do, 
and  glared  so  fiercely  at  his  audience  that  the  theater 
grew  comparatively  quiet.  At  the  top  of  his  voice,  he 
began, 

"Who  am  I,  oh  list'ning  peoples?'' 

"Pottle  the  barber,"  answered  a  voice  in  the  gallery. 

Mr.  Pottle  paused,  fastened  an  awful  eye  on  the 
owner  of  the  voice,  and,  stepping  out  of  character,  re- 
marked, succinctly: 

"If  you  interrupt  me  again,  Charlie  Meacham,  I'll 
come  up  there  and  knock  your  block  off."  He  swept  the 
house  with  a  ferocious  glance.  "And  that  goes  for  the 
rest  of  you,"  he  added.  The  intimidated  audience  went 
"ssssssh"  at  each  other;  Pottle  was  popular  in  Gran- 
ville.  He  launched  himself  again. 

"Who  am  I,  oh  list'ning  peoples? 
Hist'ry's  spirit,  stern  and  truthful! 
Come  I  here  to  give  you  an  earfulf 
Of  our  city's  inside  history, 
How  the  Gulicks  grabbed  the  real  estatet 
By  foreclosing  poor  folk's  mortgages." 

He  did  not  have  to  ask  for  silence  now.  The  hush 
of  death  was  on  the  house,  and  the  audience  bent  its 
ears  toward  him;  even  old  Felix  Winterbottom,  on  the 
edge  of  his  chair,  cupped  a  gnarled,  attentive  ear.  Mr. 
Pottle  went  on, 

"You  have  heard  the  Gulick's  Uowing, 
Of  their  wonderful  relations. 


122    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

Lend  an  ear,  and  I  will  slip  you, 
What  the  real,  true,  red-hot  dope  is" 

He  gave  his  toga  a  hitch,  advanced  to  the  foot-lights, 
and  continued, 

"Old  Saul  Gulick  was  a  drinker, 
Always  full  of  home-made  liquor f 
And  he  got  the  town  of  Granville, 
From  the  Indians,  by  cheating, 
Got  'em  drunk,  the  records  tell  us, 
Got  'em  boiled  and  stewed  and  glassy; 
Ere  they  sobered  up,  they  sold  him, 
All  the  land  in  this  fair  county, 
For  a  dollar  and  a  quarter, 
Which,  my  friends,  he  never  paid  them." 

The  audience  held  its  breath;  Felix  Winterbottom 
cupped  both  ears.     Pottle  hurried  on, 

"Now  we  come  to  'Lijah  Gulick, 
Him  that  lent  the  noble  stallion 
To  Revere,  the  midnight  rider. 
Honest,  folks,  you'll  bust  out  laughing f 
When  I  tell  you  'Lijah  stole  him. 
For  Elijah  was  a  horsethief, 
And,  as  such,  was  hanged  near  Boston. 
"Patriot,  scholar,  Icing  of  horsemen" — 
Honest,  folks,  that  makes  me  snicker. 
Yes,  he  let  Paul  ride  his  stallion — 
And  charged  him  seven  bucks  an  hour! 
If  you  think  that  I  am  lying, 
You  will  find  all  this  in  writing, 
In  the  library  in  the  state  house." 


Mr.  Pottle  and  Pageantry       123 

Sensation!  Gasps  in  the  audience.  Commotion  in 
the  wings.  Felix  Winterbottom  made  no  attempt  to 
conceal  the  fact  that  he  was  chuckling.  Pottle  drew 
in  a  deep  breath,  and  spoke  again. 

"Then  you've  heard  of  Noah  Gulick, 
Him  that  won  the  Revolution. 
If  he  ever  was  a  major, 
George  J.  Washington  never  knew  it. 
When  they  charged  at  Saratoga, 
He  was  hiding  in  a  cellar. 
Was  he  on  the  staff  of  Washington? 
Sure  he  was — but  in  the  kitchen. 
I'll  admit  he  made  good  coffee — 
But  a  soldier?     Quit  your  kidding. 
Now  I'll  take  up  Nathan  Gulick, 
His  descendants  never  mention 
That  he  spent  a  month  in  prison 
More  than  once,  for  stealing  chickens " 

Here  Mr.  Pottle  abruptly  stopped.  The  curtain  had 
been  dropped  with  a  crashing  bang  by  unseen  hands 
in  the  wings. 

As  it  fell,  there  was  a  curious,  cackling  noise  in  one 
of  the  boxes,  the  like  of  which  had  never  before  been 
heard  in  Granville.  It  was  Felix  Winterbottom  laugh- 
ing as  if  he  were  being  paid  a  dollar  a  guffaw. 

§4 

Mr.  Pottle  sat  beside  the  bedside  of  Mrs.  Pottle, 
sadly  going  over  a  column  of  figures,  as  she  lay  there, 
wan,  weak,  tear-marred,  sipping  pale  tea. 

He  cleared  his  throat. 


124    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

"As  retiring  treasurer  of  the  Granville  Pageant,"  he 
announced,  "I  regret  to  report  as  follows: 

Eeceipts  from  tickets $1,250.00 

Expenses,    including    rent,    music, 

scenery,  costumes,  and  damages,  $1,249.17 

"This  leaves  a  total  net  profit  of  eighty-three  cents." 

Mrs.  Pottle  wept  softly  into  her  pillow.  A  whistle 
outside  caused  her  to  lift  a  woeful  head. 

"There's  the  postman,"  she  said,  feebly.  "Another 
bill,  I  suppose.  We  won't  even  make  eighty-three 
cents." 

Mr.  Pottle  returned  with  the  letter;  he  opened  it; 
he  read  it;  he  whistled;  he  read  it  again;  then  he  read 
it  aloud. 

"Dear  Mrs.  Pottle: 

"I  never  laughed  at  anything  in  my  life  till  I  saw 
your  pageant    I  pay  for  what  I  get. 

"Yours, 

"FELIX  WlNTERBOTTOM. 

"P.  S.  Inclosed  is  my  check  for  one  thousand  dol- 
lars for  the  Day  Nursery." 

Mrs.  Pottle  sat  up  in  bed.    She  smiled. 


VI:  The  Cage  Man 


VI :  The  Cage  Man 

J  LL  day  long  they  kept  Horace  Nimms  in  a  steel- 

/j     barred    cage.     For    twenty-one    years   he   had 

perched   on   a  tall   stool   in  that   cage,   while 

various  persons  at  various  times  poked  things  at  him 

through  a  hole  about  big  enough  to  admit  an  adult 

guinea  pig. 

Every  evening  round  five-thirty  they  let  Horace  out 
and  permitted  him  to  go  over  to  his  half  of  a  double- 
barreled  house  in  Flatbush  to  sleep.  At  eight-thirty 
the  next  morning  he  returned  to  his  cage,  hung  his 
two-dollar-and-eighty-nine-cent  approximately  Panama 
hat  on  a  peg  and  changed  his  blue-serge-suit  coat  for 
a  still  more  shiny  alpaca.  Then  he  sharpened  two 
pencils  to  needle-point  sharpness,  tested  his  pen  by 
writing  "H.  Mmms,  Esq.,"  in  a  small  precise  hand, 
gave  his  adding  machine  a  few  preparatory  pokes  and 
was  ready  for  the  day's  work. 

Horace  was  proud,  in  his  mild  way,  of  being  shut 
up  in  the  cage  with  all  that  money.  It  carried  the 
suggestion  that  he  was  a  dangerous  man  of  a  possibly 
predatory  nature.  He  wasn't.  A  more  patient  and 
docile  five  feet  and  two  inches  of  cashier  was  not  to  be 
found  between  Spuyten  Duyvil  and  Tottenville,  Staten 
Island.  Cashiers  are  mostly  crabbed.  It  sours  them 
somehow  to  hand  out  all  that  money  and  retain  so  little 
for  their  own  personal  use.  But  Horace  was  not  of 
this  ilk. 

127 


128    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

The  timidest  stenographer  did  not  hesitate  to  take 
the  pettiest  petty-cash  slip  to  his  little  window  and 
twitter,  according  to  custom:  "Forty  cents  for  carbon 
paper,  and  let  me  have  it  in  large  bills,  please,  Uncle 
Horace." 

He  would  peer  at  the  slip,  pretend  it  was  for  forty 
dollars,  smile  a  friendly  smile  that  made  little  ripples 
round  his  eyes  and — according  to  custom — reply: 
"Here  you  be.  Now  don't  be  buying  yourself  a  flivver 
with  it." 

When  the  office  force  in  a  large  corporation  calls  the 
office  cashier  "uncle"  it  is  a  pretty  good  indication  of 
the  sort  of  man  he  is. 

For  the  rest,  Horace  Nimms  was  slightly  bald,  wore 
convict  eyeglasses — the  sort  you  shackle  to  your  head 
with  a  chain — kept  his  cuffs  up  with  lavender  sleeve 
garters,  carried  a  change  purse,  kept  a  small  red  pocket 
expense  book,  thought  his  company  the  greatest  in  the 
world  and  its  president,  Oren  Hammer,  the  greatest 
man,  was  devoted  to  a  wife  and  two  growing  daugh- 
ters, dreamed  of  a  cottage  on  Long  Island  with  a  few 
square  yards  of  beets  and  beans  and,  finally,  earned 
forty  dollars  a  week. 

Horace  Nnrnns  had  a  figuring  mind.  Those  ten  little 
Arabic  symbols  and  their  combinations  and  permuta- 
tions held  a  fascination  for  him.  To  his  ears  six  times 
six  is  thirty-six  was  as  perfect  a  poem  as  ever  a  master 
bard  penned.  When  on  muggy  Flatbush  nights  he 
tossed  in  his  brass  bed  he  lulled  himself  to  sleep  by  di- 
viding 695,481,239  by  433.  At  other  and  more  wake- 
ful moments  he  amused  himself  by  planning  an  elabo- 
rate cost-accounting  system  for  his  firm,  the  Amalga- 
mated Soap  Corporation,  known  to  the  ends  of  the 
earth  as  the  Suds  Trust.  Sometimes  he  went  so  far 


The  Cage  Man  129 

as  to  play  the  entertaining  game  of  imaginary  conver- 
sations. He  pictured  himself  sitting  in  one  of  the  fat 
chairs  in  the  office  of  President  Hammer  and  saying 
between  puffs  on  one  of  the  presidential  perfectos: 
"Now,  looky  here,  Mr.  Hammer.  My  plan  for  a  cost- 
accounting  system  is " 

And  he  limned  on  his  mental  canvas  that  great  man, 
spellbound,  enthralled,  as  he,  Horace  Nimms,  dazzled 
him  with  an  array  of  figures,  beginning:  "Now,  let's 
see,  Mr.  Hammer.  Last  year  the  Western  works  at 
Purity  City,  Iowa,  made  9,576,491  cakes  of  Pink  Petal 
Toilet  and  6,571,233  cakes  of  Lily  White  Laundry  at 
a  manufacturing  cost  of  3.25571  cents  a  cake,  unboxed; 
now  the  selling  cost  a  cake  was" — and  so  on.  The  in- 
terview always  ended  with  vigorous  hand-shakings  on 
the  part  of  Mr.  Hammer  and  more  salary  for  Mr. 
!N"imms.  But  actually  the  interview  never  took  place. 

It  wasn't  that  Horace  didn't  have  confidence  in  his 
system.  He  did.  But  he  didn't  have  an  equal  amount 
in  Horace  Kimms.  So  he  worked  on  in  his  little  cage 
and  enjoyed  a  fair  measure  of  contentment  there,  be- 
cause to  him  it  was  a  temple  of  figures,  a  shrine  of  sub- 
traction, an  altar  of  addition.  Figures  swarmed  in  his 
head  as  naturally  as  bees  swarm  about  a  locust  tree. 
He  could  tell  you  off-hand  how  many  cakes  of  Grade-B 
soap  the  Southern  Works  at  Spotless,  Louisiana,  made 
in  the  month  of  May,  1914.  He  simply  devoured  sta- 
tistics. When  the  door  of  the  cage  clanged  shut  in  the 
morning  he  felt  soothed,  at  home;  he  immersed  his 
own  small  worries  in  a  bath  of  digits  and  decimal 
points.  He  ate  of  the  lotus  leaves  of  mathematics.  He 
could  forget,  while  juggling  with  millions  of  cakes  of 
soap  and  thousands  of  dollars,  that  his  rent  was  due 
next  week;  that  Polly,  his  wife,  needed  a  new  dress; 


130    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

and  that  on  forty  a  week  one  must  live  largely  on  beef 
liver  and  hope. 

He  sometimes  thought,  while  Subwaying  to  his  of- 
fice, that  if  he  could  only  get  the  ear  of  Oren  Hammer 
some  day  and  tell  him  about  that  cost-accounting  system 
he  might  get  his  salary  raised  to  forty-five.  But  Presi- 
dent Hammer,  whose  office  was  on  the  floor  above  the 
cage,  was  as  remote  from  Horace  as  the  Pleiades.  To 
get  to  see  him  one  had  to  run  a  gantlet  of  superior, 
inquisitive  secretaries.  Besides  Mr.  Hammer  was  re- 
puted to  be  the  busiest  man  in  New  York  City. 

"I  wash  the  faces  of  forty  million  people  every 
morning,"  was  the  way  he  put  it  himself. 

But  the  chief  reason  why  Horace  ISTimms  did  not 
approach  Mr.  Hammer  was  that  Horace  held  him  in 
genuine  awe.  The  president  was  so  big,  so  masterful, 
so  decisive.  His  invariable  cutaway  intimidated 
Horace;  the  magnificence  of  his  top  hat  dazzled  the 
little  cashier  and  benumbed  his  faculties  of  speech. 
Once  in  a  while  Horace  rode  down  in  the  same  ele- 
vator with  him  and — unobserved — admired  his  firm 
profile,  the  concentration  of  his  brow  and  the  jutting 
jaw  that  some  one  had  once  said  was  worth  fifty  thou- 
sand a  year  in  itself,  merely  as  a  symbol  of  determina- 
tion. Horace  would  sooner  have  slapped  General 
Pershing  on  the  back  or  asked  President  Wilson  to 
dinner  in  Flatbush  than  have  addressed  Oren  Hammer. 
An  uncommendable  attitude?  Yes.  But  after  all 
those  years  behind  bars,  perhaps  subconsciously  his 
spirit  had  become  a  little  caged. 

One  cool  September  morning  Horace  entered  the 
cage  humming  "Annie  Rooney."  Coming  over  in  the 
Subway  he  had  straightened  out  a  little  quirk  in  his 
cost-accounting  system  that  would  save  the  company 


The  Cage  Man  131 

one-ninety-fifth  of  a  cent  a  cake.  He  took  off  his  worn 
serge  coat,  was  momentarily  concerned  at  the  prospect 
of  having  to  make  it  last  another  season  and  then  with 
a  hitch  on  his  lavender  sleeve  garters  he  slipped  into 
his  alpaca  office  coat  and  added  up  a  few  numbers  on 
the  adding  machine  for  the  sheer  joy  of  it. 

He  had  not  been  sitting  on  his  high  stool  long  when 
he  became  aware  that  a  man,  a  stranger,  was  regarding 
him  fixedly  through  the  steel  screen.  The  man  had 
calmly  placed  a  chair  just  outside  the  cage  and  was 
examining  the  little  cashier  with  the  scrutinizing  eye 
of  an  ornithologist  studying  a  newly  discovered  species 
of  emu. 

Horace  was  a  bit  disconcerted.  He  knew  his  ac- 
counts were  in  order  and  accurate  to  the  last  penny.  He 
had  nothing  to  fear  on  that  score.  Nevertheless,  he 
didn't  like  the  way  the  man  stared  at  him. 

"If  he  has  something  to  say  to  me,"  thought  Horace, 
"why  does  he  say  it  with  glowers?" 

He  would  have  asked  the  starer  what  the  devil  he  was 
looking  at,  but  Horace  was  incapable  of  incivility.  He 
began  nervously  to  total  up  a  column  of  figures  and 
was  not  a  little  upset  to  find  that  under  the  cold  gaze  he 
had  made  his  first  mistake  in  addition  since  the  spring 
of  '98.  He  cast  a  furtive  glance  or  two  through  the 
steel  netting  at  the  stranger  outside,  who  continued  to 
focus  a  pair  of  prominent  blue  eyes  on  the  self-conscious 
cashier.  Horace  couldn't  have  explained  why  those 
particular  eyes  rattled  him;  some  mysterious  power- 
black  art  perhaps. 

The  staring  man  was  quite  bald,  and  his  head,  shaped 
like   a  pineapple  cheese,   had  been  polished  until  it 
seemed  almost  to  glitter  in  the  September  sun. 
eyes,  light  blue  and  bulgy,  reminded  Horace  of  poached 


132    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

eggs  left  out  in  the  cold  for  a  week.  They  had  also  a 
certain  fishy  quality;  impassive,  yet  hungry,  like  a 
shark's.  Without  being  actually  fat,  the  mysterious 
starer  had  the  appearance  of  being  plump  and  soft ;  per- 
haps it  was  the  way  he  clasped  two  small,  perfectly 
manicured  hands  over  a  perceptible  rotundity  at  his 
middle,  an  unexpected  protuberance,  as  if  he  were 
attempting  to  conceal  a  honeydew  melon  under  his  vest. 

Horace  JSTimms  did  his  best  to  concentrate  on  the 
little  columns  of  figures  he  was  so  fond  of  drilling  and 
parading,  but  his  glance  strayed,  almost  against  his 
will,  to  the  bald-headed  man  with  the  fishy  blue  eyes, 
who  continued  to  fasten  on  Horace  the  glance  a  python 
aims  at  a  rabbit  before  he  bolts  him. 

At  length,  after  half  an  hour,  Horace  could  stand 
it  no  longer.  He  addressed  the  stranger  politely. 

"Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you  ?"  asked  Horace 
with  his  avuncular  smile. 

The  starer,  without  once  taking  his  eyes  off  Horace, 
rose,  advanced  to  the  little  window  and  thrust  through 
it  an  oversized  card. 

"You  may  go  on  with  your  work,"  he  said,  "just  as 
if  you  were  not  under  observation.  I  am  here  under 
Mr.  Hammer's  orders." 

His  voice  was  peculiar — a  nasal  purr. 

The  caged  cashier  glanced  at  the  card.    It  read : 

S.  WALMSLEY  COWAST 

EFFICIENCY  EXPERT  EXTRAORDINARY 

AUTHOR  OF  "PEP,   PERSONALITY,   PERSONNEL," 

"HOW  TO  ENTHUSE  EMPLOYEES" 

Horace  Nimms  had  a  disquieting  sensation.  He  had 
heard  rumors  of  a  man  prowling  about  in  the  company, 


The  Cage  Man  133 

subjecting  random  employees  to  strange  tests,  firing 
some,  moving  others  to  different  jobs,  but  he  had  always 
felt  that  twenty-one  years  of  service  and  the  steel  bars 
of  his  cage  protected  him.  And  now  here  was  the  man, 
and  he,  Horace  Nimms,  was  under  observation.  He 
had  always  associated  the  phrase  with  reports  of  lunacy 
cases  in  the  newspapers.  Mr.  Cowan  returned  to  hia 
seat  near  the  cage  and  resumed  his  silent  watch  on  its 
inmate.  Horace  tried  to  do  this  work,  but  he  couldn't 
remember  when  he  had  had  such  a  poor  day.  The  fig- 
ures would  come  wrong  and  his  hand  would  tremble 
a  little  no  matter  how  hard  he  tried  to  forget  the  vigi- 
lant Mr.  Cowan  who  sat  watching  him. 

At  the  end  of  a  trying  day  Horace  dismounted  from 
his  high  stool,  hitched  up  his  lavender  sleeve  garters 
and  inserted  himself  into  his  worn  blue  serge  coat.  He 
would  be  glad  to  get  back  to  Flatbush.  Polly  would 
have  some  fried  beef  liver  and  a  bread  pudding  for 
supper,  and  they  would  discuss  for  the  hundredth  time 
just  what  the  ground-floor  plan  of  that  cottage  would 
be — if  it  ever  was. 

But  Mr.  Cowan  was  waiting  for  him. 

"Step  this  way,  will  you — ple-e-ese,"  said  the  expert. 

Horace  never  remembered  when  he  had  heard  a  word 
that  retained  so  little  of  its  original  meaning  as  Mr. 
Cowan's  "ple-e-ese."  Clearly  it  was  tossed  in  as  a  sop 
to  the  hypersensitive.  His  "ple-e-ese"  could  have  been 
translated  as  "you  worm." 

Horace,  with  a  worried  brow,  followed  Mr.  Cowan 
into  one  of  those  goldfish-bowl  offices  affected  by  large 
companies  with  many  executives  and  a  limited  amount 
of  office  space.  It  contained  only  a  plain  table  and 
two  stiff  chairs. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Mr.  Cowan,  "ple-e-ese." 


134    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

It  is  a  difficult  linguistic  feat  to  purr  and  snap  at 
the  same  time,  but  Mr.  Cowan  achieved  it. 

Horace  sat  down  and  Mr.  Cowan  sat  opposite  him, 
with  his  unwinking  blue  eyes  but  two  feet  from  Hor- 
ace's mild  brown  ones  and  with  no  charitable  steel 
screen  between  them. 

"I  am  going  to  put  you  to  the  test,"  said  Mr.  Cowan. 

Horace  wildly  thought  of  thumbscrews.  He  sat  bolt 
upright  while  Mr.  Cowan  whipped  from  his  pocket  a 
tape  measure  and,  bending  over,  measured  the  breadth 
of  Horace  Nimms'  brow.  With  an  ominous  clucking 
noise  the  expert  set  down  the  measurement  on  a  chart 
in  front  of  him.  Then  he  carefully  measured  each  of 
Horace's  ears.  The  measurements  appeared  to  shock 
him.  He  wrote  them  down.  He  applied  his  tape  to 
Horace's  nose  and  measured  that  organ.  He  surveyed 
Horace's  forehead  from  several  different  angles.  He 
measured  the  circumference  of  Horace's  head.  The 
result  caused  Mr.  Cowan  acute  distress,  for  he  set  it 
down  on  his  elaborate  chart  and  glowered  at  it  a  full 
minute. 

Then  he  transferred  his  attention  and  tape  to  Hor- 
ace's stubby  hands.  He  measured  them,  counted  the 
fingers,  contemplated  the  thumb  gravely  and  wrote  sev- 
eral hundred  words  on  the  chart.  Horace  thought  he 
recognized  one  of  the  words  as  "mechanical." 

"Now,"  said  Mr.  Cowan  solemnly,  "we  will  test  your 
mental  reactions." 

He  said  this  more  to  himself  than  to  Horace  ISTimms, 
on  whose  brow  tiny  pearls  of  perspiration  were  appear- 
ing. Mr.  Cowan  drew  forth  a  stop  watch  and  spread 
another  chart  on  the  table  before  him. 

"Fill  this  out — ple-e-ese,"  he  said,  pushing  the  chart 
toward  Horace.  "You  have  just  five  minutes  to  do  it." 


The  Cage  Man  135 

Horace  Mmms,  dismayed,  almost  dazed,  seized  the 
paper  and  started  to  work  at  it  with  feverish  confusion. 
He  boggled  through  a  maze  full  of  pitfalls  for  a  tired, 
rattled  man: 

If  George  Washington  discovered  America,  write  the 

capital  of  Nebraska  in  this  space.  But  if 

he  was  called  the  Father  of  His  Country,  how  much  is 

49  X  7  ? Now  name  three  presidents  of  the 

United  States  in  alphabetical  order,  including  Jefferson, 

but  do  not  do  so  if  ice  is  warm. If  Adam 

was  the  first  man,  dot  all  the  "i's"  in  "eleemosynary" 

and  write  your  last  name  backward. Omit 

the  next  three  questions  with  the  exception  of  the  last 

two:  How  much  is  6  X  9  =  54? What  is 

the  capital  of  Omaha?  How  many  "e's" 

are  there  in  the  sentence,  "Tell  me,  pretty  maiden,  are 

there  any  more  at  home  like  you  ?" Put  a 

cross  over  all  the  consonants  in  the  foregoing  sentence. 
Now  fill  in  the  missing  words  in  the  following  sen- 
tences :  "While  picking I  was  stung  in  the 

_  ty  a »  "Don't  bite  the  

that  feeds  you." 

How  old  are  you?  Multiply  your  age  by  the  year 
you  were  born  in.  Erase  your  answer.  If  a  pound  of 
steel  is  heavier  than  a  pound  of  oyster  crackers,  don't 

write  anything  in  this  space.  •  Otherwise 

write  three  words  that  rhyme  with  "icicle."  Now 
write  your  name,  and  then  cross  out  all  the  consonants. 

Name  three  common  garden  vegetables.  • • 

It  seemed  to  Horace  Nimms  that  he  had  floundered 
along  for  less  than  a  minute  when  Mr.  Cowan  said 
briskly,  "Time,"  and  took  the  paper  from  Horace. 

"Now  the  association  test,"  said  Mr.  Cowan,  drawing 


136    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

forth  still  another  chart,  very  much  as  a  magician  draws 
forth  a  rabbit  from  a  hat. 

"I'll  say  a  word,"  he  went  on,  seeming  to  grow 
progressively  more  affable  as  Horace  grew  more  dis- 
comfited, "and  you  will  say  the  word  it  suggests  imme- 
diately after — ple-e-ese,"  he  added  as  an  afterthought. 

Horace  Nimms  moistened  his  dry  lips.  Mr.  Cowan 
pulled  out  his  stop  watch. 

"Oyster  P  said  Mr.  Cowan. 

"S-stew!"  quavered  Horace. 

"Flat?" 

"Bush!" 

"Hammer?" 

"President!" 

"Soap?" 

"Cakes!" 

"Money?" 

"Forty-five!" 

"Up?" 

"Down!" 

"Man?" 

"Cage!" 

"Most  peculiar,"  muttered  Mr.  Cowan  as  he  noted 
down  the  answers.  "We'll  have  to  look  into  this." 

Horace  could  not  suppress  a  shudder. 

"That's  all,"  said  Mr.  Cowan. 

When  Horace  arrived  at  his  Flatbush  flat,  late  for 
supper,  he  did  not  enjoy  the  bread  pudding,  though  it 
was  a  particularly  good  one — with  raisins.  Nor  did  he 
go  to  sleep  quickly,  no  matter  how  many  numbers  he 
multiplied.  He  was  thinking  what  it  would  mean  to 
him  at  his  age  if  Mr.  Cowan  should  have  him  put  out 
of  his  cage.  His  dreams  were  haunted  by  a  pair  of 
eyes  like  those  of  a  frozen  owl. 


The  Cage  Man  137 

The  next  afternoon  Horace  Mmms,  busy  in  his  cage, 
received  a  notice  that  there  would  be  an  organization 
meeting  at  the  end  of  the  day.  He  went.  The  meeting 
had  been  called  by  S.  Walmsley  Cowan,  who  in  his 
talks  to  large  groups  adopted  the  benevolent  big-brother 
manner  and  turned  on  and  off  a  beaming  smile. 

"My  friends,"  he  began,  "it  is  no  secret  to  some  of 
you  that  Mr.  Hammer  has  not  been  pleased  with  the 
way  things  are  going  in  the  company.  He  has  felt  that 
there  has  been  a  great  deal  of  waste  of  time  and  money ; 
that  neither  the  volume  of  business  nor  the  profits  on 
it  are  what  they  should  be.  He  has  commissioned  me 
to  find  out  what  is  wrong  in  the  company  and  to  put 
pep,  efficiency,  enthusiasm  into  our  organization." 

He  smiled  a  modest  smile. 

"I  rather  fancy,"  he  continued,  "that  I'll  succeed.  I 
have  been  conducting  the  tests  with  which  you  are  all 
doubtless  familiar  through  reading  my  books,  'Pep,  Per- 
sonality, Personnel,'  and  'How  to  Enthuse  Employees.' 
I  have  made  a  most  interesting  and  startling  discovery. 
Most  of  you  are  in  the  wrong  jobs !" 

He  paused.  The  men  and  women  looked  at  each 
other  uneasily.  Then  he  went  on. 

"I'll  cite  just  one  instance.  Yesterday  I  tested  the 
mentality  of  one  of  you.  I  found  that  he  was  of  the 
cage,  or  solitary,  type  of  worker.  See  Page  239  of  my 
book  on  Getting  Into  Men's  Brains.  But  he  was  already 
working  in  a  cage !  Here  was  a  problem.  Could  it  be 
that  that  was  where  he  would  do  best  ?  No  I  Then  a 
happy  solution  struck  me.  He  was  in  the  wrong  cage. 
So  I  am  going  to  transfer  him  from  a  mathematical 
cage  to  a  mechanical  cage.  I  am  going  to  transfer  him 
to  be  an  elevator  operator.  This  may  surprise  you,  my 
friends,  but  science  is  always  surprising.  Just  fancy! 


138    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

This  man  has  been  working  with  figures  for  more  than 
twenty  years,  and  I  discover  by  measuring  that  hia 
thumbs  are  of  the  purely  mechanical  type,  and  all  that 
time  he  would  have  been  much  happier  running  an 
elevator.  Now  by  an  odd  coincidence  I  found  that  one 
of  the  elevator  operators  has  a  pure  type  of  mathemati- 
cal ear,  so  I  am  transferring  him  to  the  cashier's  cage. 
He  may  seem  a  bit  awkward  there  at  first,  but  we  shall 
see,  we  shall  see." 

He  turned  on  his  smile.  But  the  eyes  of  the  em- 
ployees had  turned  sympathetically  to  the  pale  face  of 
Horace  Nimms.  How  old  and  tired  Uncle  Horace 
looked,  they  thought.  In  a  nightmare  Horace  heard 
his  doom  pronounced.  After  twenty-one  years!  His 
temple  of  figures! 

S.  Walmsley  Cowan  unconcernedly  began  one  of  hia 
celebrated  pep-and-punch  talks  calculated  to  send 
morale  up  as  a  candle  sends  up  the  mercury  in  a  ther- 
mometer. 

"Friends,"  he  said,  thumping  the  table  before  him, 
"when  Opportunity  comes  to  knock  be  on  the  front 
porch !  Don't  hold  back !  He  who  hesitates  is  lost.  It 
may  be  that  the  humble  will  inherit  the  earth,  but  that 
will  be  when  all  the  bold  have  died.  Don't  hide  your 
light  under  a  basket;  don't  keep  your  ideas  locked  up 
in  your  skulls.  Bring  'em  out!  Let's  have  a  look  at 
them.  You  wouldn't  wear  a  diamond  ring  inside  your 
shirt,  would  you?-  Be  sure  you're  right,  then  holler 
your  head  off.  Get  what  is  coming  to  you!  Nobody 
will  bring  it  on  a  platter;  you've  got  to  step  up  and 
grab  it.  When  you  have  an  impulse,  think  it  over. 
If  it  looks  like  the  real  goods,  obey  it.  Get  me  ?  Obey 
it !  Nobody  will  bite  you.  Think  all  you  like,  but  for 
heaven's  sake,  act!" 


The  Cage  Man  139 

It  was  for  such  talks  that  Mr.  Cowan  was  famous. 
Even  Horace  Nimms  forgot  his  impending  fall  as  the 
efficiency  expert  extraordinary  declaimed  the  gospel  of 
action  and  boldness. 

But  when  the  meeting  was  over,  silent  misery  came 
into  the  heart  of  the  little  cashier  and  like  an  automa- 
ton he  stumbled  into  the  Subway.  He  ate  his  bread 
pudding  without  tasting  it  and  tried  to  talk  to  Polly 
about  the  proposed  living  room  in  the  Long  Island  cot- 
tage. He  hadn't  the  courage  to  tell  her  what  had  hap- 
pened; indeed  he  hardly  realized  what  had  happened 
himself. 

In  the  morning  he  tried  to  pretend  to  himself  that 
it  was  all  a  joke;  surely  Mr.  Cowan  couldn't  have 
meant  it.  But  when  he  reached  his  cage  he  saw  an- 
other figure  already  in  that  temple  of  addition  and  sub- 
traction. He  rattled  the  wire  door  timidly.  The  figure 
turned. 

"Wadda  yah  want?"  it  asked  bellicosely. 

Horace  Nimms  recogized  the  bluish  jaw  of  Gus,  one 
of  the  elevator  men. 

Sick  at  heart,  Horace  turned  away.  In  the  blur  of 
his  thoughts  was  the  one  that  he  must  keep  his  job, 
some  job,  any  job.  One  can't  save  much  on  forty  a 
week  in  Flatbush.  And  that  he  should  work  for  any 
one  but  the  Amalgamated  Soap  Corporation  was  un- 
thinkable. So  without  knowing  exactly  how  it  hap- 
pened, he  found  himself  in  a  blue-and-gray  uniform 
clumsily  trying  to  vindicate  his  mechanical  hands  and 
attempting  to  stop  his  car  within  six  inches  of  the  floors. 
All  morning  he  patiently  escorted  his  car  up  and  down 
the  elevator  shaft — twenty  stories  up,  twenty  stories 
down,  twenty  stories  up,  twenty  stories  down.  He 
thought  of  the  Song  of  the  Shirt. 


140    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

At  noon  he  stopped  his  car  at  the  eighteenth  floor 
and  two  passengers  got  on.  Horace  recognized  them. 
One  was  Jim  Wright,  assistant  to  President  Hammer; 
the  other  was  Mr.  Perrine,  Western  sales  manager. 
They  were  in  animated  conversation. 

"That  fellow  has  the  crust  of  a  mud  turtle  and  the 
tact  of  a  rattlesnake,"  Mr.  Perrine  was  saying. 

"Kemember,"  Jim  Wright  reminded  him,  "he  is  an 
efficiency  expert  extraordinary.  The  big  boss  seems  to 
have  confidence  in  him." 

"He  won't  have  quite  so  much,"  said  Mr.  Perrine, 
"when  he  hears  that  he  put  an  elevator  man  in  as 
cashier.  I  hear  he  walked  off  with  six  hundred  dollars 
before  he'd  been  on  the  job  an  hour." 

Horace  pricked  up  his  ears.  He  made  the  car  go 
as  slowly  as  possible. 

"He  did  ?"  Jim  Wright  was  excited.  "And  this  is 
one  of  the  boss'  bad  days  too !  Just  before  I  left  him 
he  was  saying,  'The  Amalgamated  has  about  as  much 
system  as  a  piece  of  cheese.  Why,  these  high-salaried 
executives  can't  tell  me  how  much  it  costs  them  to  make 
and  sell  a  cake  of  soap!" 

Then  Horace  reluctantly  let  them  out  of  the  elevator 
at  the  street  floor. 

All  that  afternoon  he  struggled  with  an  impulse. 
The  words  of  Mr.  Cowan's  oration  of  the  night  before 
began  to  come  back  to  him.  If  only  he  had  obeyed  his 
impulses 

As  he  was  a  new  man,  they  gave  him  the  late  shift. 
At  one  minute  to  six  the  indicator  in  his  car  gave  two 
short,  sharp,  peremptory  buzzes.  Horace,  who  was  mas- 
tering the  elements  of  elevator  operating,  shot  up  to 
the  eighteenth  floor.  A  single  passenger  got  on.  With 


The  Case  Man  141 

a  little  gasp  Horace  recognized  the  cutaway  coat  and 
top  hat  of  the  president  of  the  Amalgamated. 

Horace  set  his  teeth.  His  small  frame  grew  tense. 
He  turned  the  lever  and  the  car  started  to  glide  down- 
ward. Seventeen,  sixteen,  fifteen,  fourteen,  thirteen, 
twelve !  Then  with  a  quick  twist  of  his  wrist  Horace 
stalled  the  car  between  the  twelfth  and  eleventh  floors 
and  slipped  the  controlling  key  into  his  pocket.  Then 
he  turned  and  faced  the  big  president. 

"You  don't  know  a  hell  of  a  lot  about  running  an 
elevator,"  remarked  Oren  Hammer. 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  Horace  Nimms  in  a  strange,  loud 
voice  that  he  didn't  recognize.  "But  I  do  know  how 
much  it  costs  a  cake  to  make  Pink  Petal  Toilet." 

"What's  that  ?  Who  the  devil  are  you  ?"  The  great 
man  was  more  surprised  than  angry. 

"Nimms,"  said  Horace  briefly.  "Office  cashier  on 
seventeenth  floor  twenty-one  years.  Elevator  operator 
one  day.  Mr.  Cowan's  orders." 

Mr.  Hammer's  brow  contracted. 

"So  you  think  you  can  tell  me  how  much  Pink  Petal 
costs  a  cake  to  make,  eh?"  he  said. 

He  had  the  reputation  of  never  overlooking  an 
opportunity. 

The  imaginary  conversations  that  Horace  had  been 
having  crowded  back  into  his  mind. 

"Now,  looky  here,  Mr.  Hammer,"  he  began.  "The 
Western  works  made  9,576,491  cakes  of  Pink  Petal 
Toilet  last  year.  Now  the  cost  a  cake  was — "  and  so  on. 
Horace  was  on  familiar  ground  now.  Figures  and 
statistics  tripped  from  his  tongue;  the  details  he  had 
bottled  up  inside  him  so  long  came  pouring  forth.  He 
knew  the  business  of  the  Amalgamated  down  to  the 
last  stamp  and  rubber  band.  Oren  Hammer,  listening 


142    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

with  keen  interest,  now  and  then  put  in  a  short,  direct 
question.  Horace  Nimms  snapped  back  short,  direct 
answers.  Once  launched,  he  forgot  all  about  the  cut- 
away coat  and  the  dazzling  top  hat  and  even  about  the 
big-jawed  man  who  washed  the  faces  of  forty  million 
people  every  morning.  Horace  was  talking  to  get  back 
into  his  cage  and  words  came  with  a  new-found  elo- 
quence. 

"By  George,"  exclaimed  President  Hammer,  "you 
know  more  about  the  business  than  I  do  myself !  And 
Cowan  told  you  you  didn't  have  a  figuring  mind,  did 
he?  I  want  you  to  report  at  my  office  the  first  thing 
to-morrow  morning." 

Horace  Nimms,  in  the  black  suit  he  saved  for 
funerals  and  weddings,  and  a  new  tie,  was  ushered 
into  the  big  office  of  President  Hammer  the  next  morn- 
ing. Outwardly,  it  was  his  hope,  he  was  calm;  in- 
wardly, he  knew,  he  was  quaking. 

"Have  a  cigar,  Nimms,"  said  Oren  Hammer,  pass- 
ing Horace  one  of  the  presidential  perfectos  of  his 
dreams.  Then  he  summoned  a  secretary. 

"Ask  Mr.  Cowan  to  come  in,  will  you?"  he  said. 

The  efficiency  expert  extraordinary  entered,  beaming 
affably. 

"Good  morning  to  you,  Mr.  Hammer,"  he  called  out 
in  a  cheery  voice.  Then  he  stopped  short  as  he  recog- 
nized Horace. 

"Oh,  come  here,  Cowan,"  said  President  Hammer 
genially.  "Before  you  go  I  want  you  to  meet  Mr. 
Nimms,  He  is  going  to  install  a  new  cost-accounting 
system  for  us.  Just  step  down  to  the  cashier's  cage 
with  him,  will  you,  and  get  your  salary  to  date." 


VII:   Where  is  the  Tropic  of 
Capricorn? 


VII:  Where  is  the  Tropic 
of  Capricorn  ? 

,  two,  three,  bend!  One,  two,  three,  bend!" 
So  barked  the  physical  instructor,  a  bulgy 
man  with  muscles  popping  out  all  over  him  as 
if  his  skin  had  been  stuffed  with  hard-boiled  eggs. 

Little  Peter  Mullaney  oned,  twoed,  threed  and  bent 
with  such  earnest  and  whole-hearted  violence  that  his 
blue  eyes  seemed  likely  to  be  jostled  from  their  sockets 
and  the  freckles  to  be  jarred  loose  from  his  thin,  wiry 
arms.  Though  breathless,  and  not  a  little  sinew-sore 
from  the  stiff  setting-up  exercises,  his  small,  sharp- 
jawed  face  wore  a  beatified  look,  the  look  that  bespeaks 
the  rare,  ecstatic  thrill  that  comes  to  mortals  so  seldom 
in  this  life  of  taxes,  prohibitions  and  denied  ambitions. 
Such  a  look  might  a  hero-worshiping  boy  wear  if  seen 
by  his  gang  in  the  company  of  Jack  Dempsey,  or  a 
writer  if  caught  in  the  act  of  taking  tea  with  Shaw. 
Peter  Mullaney  was  standing  at  the  very  door  of  his 
life's  ambition ;  he  was  about  to  be  taken  "on  the  cops." 

To  be  taken  "on  the  cops" — the  phrase  is  depart- 
mental argot  and  is  in  common  use  by  those  who  enjoy 
that  distinction — this  had  been  the  ideal  of  Peter  Mul- 
laney since  the  days  when  he,  an  undersized  infant,  had 
tottered  around  his  Christopher  Street  back-yard,  an 
improvised  broom-stick  billy  in  his  hand,  solemnly  ar- 
resting and  incarcerating  his  small  companions.  Ta 

US 


146    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

wear  that  spruce,  brass-button  studded  blue  uniform, 
and  that  glittering  silver  shield,  to  twirl  a  well-trained 
night-stick  on  its  cord,  to  eye  the  layman  with  the  cold, 
impassive  eye  of  authority,  to  whisper  mysterious  mes- 
sages into  red  iron  signal  boxes  on  street-corners,  to 
succor  the  held-up  citizen  and  pursue  the  crook  to  his 
underworld  lair,  to  be  addressed  as  "Officer" — he  had 
lived  for  this  dream. 

And  here  he  was,  the  last  man  on  a  row  of  thirty 
panting,  perspiring  probationary  patrolmen,  ranged, 
according  to  height,  across  the  gymnasium  of  the  police 
training  school.  From  big  Dan  Mack,  six  feet  four  in 
his  socks,  they  graded  down  as  gently  as  a  ramp  to 
little  Peter  on  the  end  of  the  line  a  scant,  a  bare  five 
feet  five  and  seven-eighths  inches  tall  including  the  de- 
fiant bristle  of  his  red  pompadour. 

Peter  was  happy,  and  with  reason.  It  was  by  no 
generous  margin  that  Peter  had  gained  admission  to 
the  school  that  was  to  prepare  him  for  his  career.  By 
the  sheerest  luck  he  had  escaped  being  cast  into  the 
exterior  darkness;  by  the  slimmest  degree  he  had  wig- 
gled into  the  school,  and  whether  he  could  attain  the 
goal  on  which  he  had  kept  his  eye  for  twenty  years — • 
or  ever  since  he  was  four — was  still  decidedly  in  doubt. 
The  law  said  in  plain,  inexorable  black  and  white  that 
the  minimum  height  a  policeman  can  be  is  five  feet  and 
six  inches.  Peter  Mullaney  lacked  that  stature  by  the 
distance  between  a  bumble-bee's  eyes ;  and  this,  despite 
the  fact  that  for  years  he  had  sought  most  strenuously, 
by  exercise,  diet  and  even  torture  to  stretch  out  his 
body  to  the  required  five  feet  six.  When  he  was 
eighteen  and  it  seemed  certain  that  an  unsympathetic 
fate  had  meant  him  to  be  a  short  man,  his  father  found 
him  one  day  in  the  attic,  lashed  to  a  beam,  with  a  box 


Where  is  the  Tropic  of  Capricorn?  147 

full  of  window-weights  tied  to  liis  feet,  and  his  face 
gray  with  pain. 

"Shure,  me  bye,"  remarked  old  man  Mullaney  as  he 
cut  Peter  down,  "are  ye  after  thinkin'  that  the  Mul- 
laneys  is  made  of  Injy  rubber?  Don't  it  say  in  the 
Bible,  'What  man  by  takin'  thought  can  add  a  Cupid 
to  his  statue  ?'  " 

Peter,  in  hot  and  anguished  rebellion  against  this 
all  too  evident  law  of  nature  had  sought  relief  by  going 
straight  out  of  the  house  and  licking  the  first  boy  he 
met  who  was  twice  as  big  as  he  was,  in  a  fight  that  is 
still  remembered  in  the  Second  Ward.  But  stretching 
and  wishing  and  even  eating  unpleasant  and  expensive 
tablets,  alleged  by  their  makers  to  be  made  from 
giraffes'  glands,  did  not  bring  Peter  up  to  a  full  and 
unquestionable  five  feet  six. 

When  Peter  came  up  for  a  preliminary  examination 
which  was  to  determine  whether  he  possessed  the  mate- 
rial from  which  policemen  are  made,  Commissioner 
Kondorman,  as  coldly  scientific  as  his  steel  scales  and 
measures,  surveyed  the  stricken  Peter,  as  he  stood  there 
on  the  scales,  his  freckles  in  high  relief  on  his  skin, 
for  he  was  pale  all  over  at  the  thought  that  he  nrght 
be  rejected. 

"Candidate  Hullaney,"  said  the  Commissioner, 
"you're  too  short." 

Peter  felt  marble  lumps  swelling  in  his  throat. 

"If  you'd  only  give  me  a  chance,  Commissioner,"  he 
was  able  to  gulp  out,  "I'd " 

Commissioner  Kondorman,  who  had  been  studying 
the  records  spread  on  his  desk,  cut  the  supplicant  short 
with: 

"Your  marks  in  the  other  tests  are  pretty  good, 
though  you  seem  a  little  weak  in  general  education. 


148    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

But  your  strength  test  is  unusually  high,  for  a  small 
man.  However,  regulations  are  regulations  and  I  be- 
lieve in  sticking  to  them.  Next  candidate !" 

Peter  did  not  go. 

"Commissioner,"  he  hegan  urgently,  "all  I  ask  is  a 
chance " 

His  eyes  were  tense  and  pleading. 

The  Chief  Inspector,  grizzled  Matthew  McCabe, 
plucked  at  the  Commissioner's  coat-sleeve. 

"Well,  Chief?"  inquired  Commissioner  Kondorman, 
a  little  impatiently. 

"He's  a  good  lad,"  put  in  the  Chief  Inspector,  "and 
well  spoke  of  in  the  Second  Ward." 

"He's  under  height,"  said  the  Commissioner,  briefly. 

"But  he  knows  how  to  handle  his  fists,"  argued  the 
old  Chief  Inspector. 

"Does  he  ?"  said  the  Commissioner,  skeptically.  "He 
looks  rather  small."  He  examined  Peter  through  his 
eye-glasses;  beneath  that  chill  and  critical  gaze  Peter 
felt  that  he  had  shrunk  to  the  size  of  a  bantam  rooster ; 
the  lumps  in  his  throat  were  almost  choking  him ;  in  an 
agony  of  desperation,  he  cried, 

"Bring  in  the  biggest  man  you  got.    I'll  fight  him." 

The  Commissioner's  face  was  set  in  hard,  and  one 
would  have  thought,  immovable  lines,  yet  he  achieved 
the  feat  of  turning  up,  ever  so  slightly,  the  corners  of 
his  lips  in  an  expression  which  might  pass  as  the  germ 
of  a  smile,  as  he  gazed  at  the  small,  nude,  freckled 
figure  before  him  with  its  vivid  shaving-brush  hair,  its 
intense  eyes  and  its  clenched  fists  posed  in  approved 
prize-ring  form.  Again  the  official  bent  over  the  reo- 
ords  and  studied  them. 

"Character  recommendations  seem  pretty  good,"  he 
mused.  "Never  has  used  tobacco  or  liquor " 


Where  Is  the  Tropic  of  Capricorn?  149 

"  'Fraid  it  might  stunt  me,"  muttered  Peter,  "so  I 
couldn't  get  on  the  cops." 

The  commissioner  stared  at  him  with  one  degree 
more  of  interest. 

"Give  the  lad  a  chance,"  urged  the  Chief  Inspector. 
"He  only  lacks  a  fraction  of  an  inch.  He  may  grow." 

"Now,  Chief,"  said  the  Commissioner  turning  to 
the  official  by  his  side,  "you  know  I'm  a  stickler  for1, 
the  rules.  What's  the  good  of  saying  officers  must  be 
five  feet  six  and  then  taking  men  who  are  shorter  ?" 

"You  know  how  badly  we  need  men,"  shrugged  the 
Chief  Inspector,  "and  Mullaney  here  strikes  me  as 
having  the  making  of  a  good  cop.  It  will  do  no  harm 
to  try  him  out." 

The  Commissioner  considered  for  a  moment.  Then 
he  wheeled  round  and  faced  Peter  Mullaney. 

"You've  asked  for  a  chance,"  he  shot  out.  "You'll 
get  it.  You  can  attend  police  training  school  for  three 
months.  I'll  waive  the  fact  that  you're  below  the  re- 
quired height,  for  the  time  being.  But  if  in  your  final 
examinations  you  don't  get  excellent  marks  in  every 
branch,  by  the  Lord  Harry,  you  get  no  shield  from 
me.  Do  you  understand?  One  slip,  and  good-by  to 
you.  Next  candidate!" 

They  had  to  guide  Peter  Mullaney  back  to  his 
clothes ;  he  was  in  a  dazed  blur  of  happiness. 

Next  day,  with  the  strut  of  a  conqueror  and  with 
pride  shining  from  every  freckle,  little  Peter  Mullaney 
entered  the  police  training  school.  To  fit  himself 
physically  for  the  task  of  being  a  limb  of  the  law,  he 
oned,  twoed,  threed  and  bent  by  the  hour,  twisted  the 
toes  of  two  hundred  pound  fellow  students  in  frantic 
jiu  jitsu,  and  lugged  other  ponderous  probationers 
about  on  his  shoulders  in  the  practice  of  first  aid  to 


150    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

the  injured.  This  physical  side  of  his  schooling  Peter 
enjoyed,  and,  despite  his  lack  of  inches,  did  extremely 
well,  for  he  was  quick,  tough  and  determined.  But  it 
was  the  book-work  that  made  him  pucker  his  brow  and 
press  his  head  with  his  hands  as  if  to  keep  it  from 
bursting  with  the  facts  he  had  to  jam  into  it. 

It  was  the  boast  of  Commissioner  Kondorman  that 
he  was  making  his  police  force  the  most  intelligent  in 
the  world.  Give  him  time,  he  was  fond  of  saying,  and 
there  would  not  be  a  man  on  it  who  could  not  be  called 
well-informed.  He  intended  to  see  to  it  that  from 
chief  inspector  down  to  the  greenest  patrolman  they 
could  answer,  off-hand,  not  only  questions  about  routine 
police  matters,  but  about  the  whole  range  of  the 
encyclopedia. 

"I  want  well-informed  men,  intelligent  men,"  he 
said.  "Men  who  can  tell  you  the  capital  of  Patagonia, 
where  copra  comes  from,  and  who  discovered  the  cotton- 
gin.  I  want  men  who  have  used  their  brains,  have 
read  and  thought  a  bit.  The  only  way  I  can  find  that 
out  is  by  asking  questions,  isn't  it?" 

The  anti-administration  press,  with  intent  to  slight, 
called  the  policemen  "Kondorman's  Encyclopedias 
bound  in  blue,"  but  he  was  not  in  the  least  perturbed; 
he  made  his  next  examination  a  l)it  stiffer. 

Peter  Mullaney,  handicaped  by  the  fact  that  hia 
span  of  elementary  schooling  had  been  abbreviated  by 
the  necessity  of  earning  his  own  living,  struggled 
valiantly  with  weighty  tomes  packed  with  statutes,  or- 
dinances, and  regulations — what  a  police  officer  can 
and  cannot  do  about  mayhem,  snow  on  the  sidewalks, 
arson,  dead  horses  in  the  street,  kidnaping,  extricating 
intoxicated  gentlemen  from  man-holes,  smoking  auto- 
mobiles, stray  goats,  fires,  earthquakes,  lost  children, 


Where  is  the  Tropic  of  Capricorn?  151 

blizzards,  disorderly  conduct  and  riots.  He  prepared 
himself,  by  no  small  exertion,  to  tell  an  inquiring  public 
where  Bedford  street  is,  if  traffic  can  go  both  ways  on 
Commerce  street,  what  car  to  take  to  get  from  Hudson 
street  to  Chatham  Square,  how  to  get  to  the  nearest 
branch  library,  quick  lunch,  p/ublic  bath,  zoo,  dispen- 
sary and  garage,  how  to  get  to  the  Old  Slip  Station, 
Flower  Hospital,  the  St.  Regis,  Coney  Island,  Duluth 
and  Grant's  Tomb.  He  stuffed  himself  with  these  per- 
tinent facts ;  he  wanted  to  be  a  good  cop.  He  could  not 
see  exactly  how  it  would  help  him  to  know  in  addition 
to  an  appalling  amount  of  local  geography  and  history, 
the  name  of  the  present  ruler  of  Bulgaria,  what  a  zebu 
is,  and  who  wrote  "Home,  Sweet  Home."  But  since 
questions  of  this  sort  were  quite  sure  to  bob  up  on  the 
examination  he  toiled  through  many  volumes  with  a 
zeal  that  made  his  head  ache. 

When  he  had  been  working  diligently  in  the  training 
school  for  three  months  lacking  a  day,  the  great  moment 
came  when  he  was  given  a  chance  to  put  theory  into 
practice,  by  being  sent  forth,  in  a  uniform  slightly  too 
large  for  him,  to  patrol  a  beat  in  the  company  of  a 
veteran  officer,  so  that  he  might  observe,  at  first  hand, 
how  an  expert  handled  the  many  and  varied  duties  of 
the  police  job.  Except  that  he  had  no  shield,  no  night 
stick,  and  no  revolver,  Peter  looked  exactly  like  any  of 
the  other  guardians  of  law.  He  trudged  by  the  side  of 
the  big  Officer  Gaffney,  trying  to  look  stern,  and  finding 
it  hard  to  keep  his  joy  from  breaking  out  in  a  smile. 
If  Judy  McMty  could  only  see  him  now !  They  were 
to  be  married  as  soon  as  he  got  his  shield. 

But  joy  is  never  without  its  alloy.  Even  as  Peter 
strode  importantly  through  the  streets  of  the  upper 
[West  Side,  housing  delicious  thrills  in  every  corpuscle 


152    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

from  the  top  of  his  blue  cap  to  the  thick  soles  and  rubber 
heels  of  his  shiningly  new  police  shoes,  a  worry  kept 
plucking  at  his  mind.  On  the  morrow  lie  was  to  take 
his  final  examination  in  general  education,  and  that 
was  no  small  obstacle  between  him  and  his  shield.  He 
had  labored  to  be  ready,  but  he  was  afraid. 

That  worry  grew  as  he  paced  along,  trying  to  remem- 
ber whether  the  Amazon  is  longer  than  the  Ganges  and 
who  Gambetta  was.  He  did  not  even  pay  close  atten- 
tion to  his  mentor,  although  on  most  occasions  those 
five  blue  service  stripes  on  Officer  Gaffney's  sleeve,  rep- 
resenting a  quarter  of  a  century  on  the  force,  would 
have  caused  Peter  to  listen  with  rapt  interest  to  Officer 
Gaffney's  genial  flow  of  reminiscence  and  advice. 
Dimly  he  heard  the  old  policeman  rumbling: 

"When  I  was  took  on  the  cops,  Pether,  all  they  ex- 
pected of  a  cop  was  two  fists  and  a  cool  head.  But 
sthyles  in  cops  changes  like  sthyles  in  hats,  I  guess. 
I've  seen  a  dozen  commissioners  come  and  go,  and  they 
all  had  their  own  ideas.  The  prisint  comish  is  the 
queerest  duck  of  the  lot,  wid  his  "Who  was  Pernam- 
buco  and  what  the  divil  ailed  him,  and  who  invinted 
the  gin  rickey  and  who  discovered  the  Gowanus  Canal." 
Not  that  I'm  agin  a  cop  bein'  a  learned  man.  Divil  a 
bit.  Learnin'  won't  hurt  him  none  if  he  has  two  fists 
and  a  clear  head." 

He  paused  to  take  nourishment  from  some  tabloid 
tobacco  in  his  hip-pocket,  and  rumbled  on, 

"Whin  I  was  took  on  the  cops,  as  I  say,  they  was  no 
graduatin'  exercises  like  a  young  ladies'  siminary.  The 
comish — it  waa  auld  Malachi  Bannon — looked  ye 
square  in  the  eye  and  said,  'Young  fella,  ye're  about  to 
go  forth  and  riprisint  the  majesty  of  the  law.  Whin 
on  juty  be  clane  and  sober  and  raisonably  honest.  Keep 


Where  is  the  Tropic  of  Capricorn?  153 

a  civil  tongue  in  your  head  for  ivrybody,  even  Repub- 
licans.  Get  to  know  your  precinct  like  a  book.  Don't 
borrow  trouble.  But  above  all,  rimimber  this:  a  cop 
can  do  a  lot  of  queer  things  and  square  himself  wid  me 
afterward,  but  there's  one  sin  no  cop  can  square — the 
sin  of  runnin'  away  whin  needed.  Go  to  your  post/  " 

Little  Peter  nodded  his  head. 

They  paced  along  in  silence  for  a  time.  Then  Peter 
asked, 

"Jawn " 

"What,  Pether?" 

"Jawn,  where  is  the  Tropic  of  Capricorn  ?" 

Officer  Gaffney  wrinkled  his  grey  eyebrows  quizzi- 
cally. 

"The  Tropic  of  Whichicorn  ?"  he  inquired. 

"The  Tropic  of  Capricorn,"  repeated  Peter. 

"Pether,"  said  Officer  Gaffney,  dubiously,  scratching 
his  head  with  the  tip  of  his  night-stick,  "I  disrimimber 
but  I  think — I  think,  mind  ye,  it's  in  the  Bronx." 

They  continued  their  leisurely  progress. 

"  'Tis  a  quiet  beat,  this,"  observed  Officer  Gaffney. 
"Quiet  but  responsible.  Rich  folks  lives  in  these  houses, 
Pether,  and  that  draws  crooks,  sometimes.  But  mostlv 
it's  as  quiet  as  a  Sunday  in  Dooleyville."  He  laughed 
deep  in  his  chest. 

"It  makes  me  think,"  he  said,  "of  Tommie  Toohy, 
him  that's  a  lieutinant  now  over  in  Canarsie.  'Tis 
a  lesson  ye'd  do  well  to  mind,  Pether." 

Peter  signified  that  he  was  all  ears. 

"He  had  the  cop  bug  worse  than  you,  even,  PetHer,w 
said  the  veteran. 

Peter  flushed  beneath  his  freckles. 

"Yis,  he  had  it  bad,  this  Tommie  Toohy,"  pursued 
Officer  Gaffney.  "He  was  crazy  to  be  a  cop  as  soon  as 


154    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

he  could  walk.  I  never  seen  a  happier  man  in  me  life 
than  Toohy  the  day  he  swaggers  out  of  the  station- 
house  to  go  on  post  up  in  the  twenty-ninth  precinct. 
In  thim  days  there  was  nawthin'  up  there  but  rows  of 
little  cottages  wid  stoops  on  thim ;  nawthin  but  dacint,1 
respictable  folks  lived  there  and  they  always  give  that 
beat  to  a  recruity  because  it  was  so  quiet.  Well, 
Toohy  goes  on  juty  at  six  o'clock  in  the  evenin',  puffed 
up  wid  importance  and  polishing  his  shield  every  min- 
ute or  two.  'Tis  a  short  beat — up  one  side  of  Garden 
Avenue  and  down  on  the  other  side.  Toohy  paces  up 
and  down,  swingin'  his  night-stick  and  lookin'  hard 
and  suspicious  at  every  man,  woman  or  child  that 
passes  him.  He  was  just  bustin'  to  show  his  authority. 
But  nawthin'  happened.  Toohy  paced  up  and  back, 
up  and  back,  up  and  back.  It  gets  to  be  eight  o'clock. 
Nawthin  happens.  Toohy  can  stand  it  no  longer.  He 
spies  an  auld  man  sittin'  on  his  stoop,  peacefully 
imokin'  his  evenin'  pipe.  Toohy  goes  up  to  the  old 
fellow  and  glares  at  him. 

"  'What  are  you  doin'  there  ?'  says  Toohy. 

"  'Nawthin,'  says  the  auld  man. 

"  'Well,'  says  Toohy,  wid  a  stern  scowl,  shakin'  his 
night-stick  at  the  scared  auld  gazabo,  'You  go  in  the 
house.' " 

Peter  chuckled. 

"But  Toohy  lived  to  make  a  good  cop  for  all  that," 
finished  the  veteran.  "Wid  all  his  recruity  monkey- 
shines,  he  never  ran  away  whin  needed." 

"I  wonder  could  he  bound  Bolivia,"  said  Peter 
Mullaney. 

"I'll  bet  he  could,"  said  Officer  Gaffney,  "if  it  was 
in  his  precinct." 


Where  is  the  Tropic  of  Capricorn?  155 

Late  next  afternoon,  Peter  sat  gnawing  his  knuckles 
in  a  corner  of  the  police  schoolroom.  All  morning  he 
had  battled  with  the  examination  in  general  education. 
It  had  not  been  as  hard  as  he  had  feared,  but  he  waa 
worried  nevertheless.  So  much  was  at  stake. 

He  was  quivering  all  over  when  he  was  summoned 
to  the  office  of  the  Commissioner,  and  his  quivering 
grew  as  he  saw  the  rigid  face  of  Commissioner  Kondor- 
man,  and  read  no  ray  of  hope  there.  Papers  were 
strewn  over  the  official  desk.  Kondorman  looked  up, 
frowned. 

"Mullaney,"  he  said,  bluntly,  "you've  failed." 

"F-f ailed  ?"  quavered  Peter. 

"Yes.  In  general  education.  I  told  you  if  you  made 
excellent  marks  we'd  overlook  your  deficiency  in  height. 
Your  paper" — he  tapped  it  with  his  finger — "isn't  bad. 
But  it  isn't  good.  You  fell  down  hard  on  question 
seventeen." 

"Question  seventeen?" 

"Yes.  The  question  is,  'Where  is  the  Tropic  of 
Capricorn  ?'  And  your  answer  is" — the  Commissioner 
paused  before  he  pronounced  the  damning  words — 
"  'The  Tropic  of  Capricon  is  in  the  Bronx.' ' 

Peter  gulped,  blinked,  opened  and  shut  his  fists, 
twisted  his  cap  in  hisihands,  a  picture  of  abject  misery. 
The  Commissioner's  -voice  was  crisp  and  final. 

"That's  all,  Mullaney.  Sorry.  Turn  in  your  uni- 
form at  once.  Well  ?" 

Peter  had  started  away,  had  stopped  and  was  facing 
the  commissioner. 

"Commissioner,"  he  begged 

"That  will  do,"  snapped  the  Commissioner.  I  gave 
you  your  chance;  you  understood  the  conditions." 

"It— it  isn't  that,"  fumbled  out  Peter  Mullaney, 


156    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

"but — but  wouldn't  you  please  let  me  go  out  on  post 
once  more  with  Officer  Gaffney?" 

"I  don't  see  what  good  that  would  do,"  said  Commis- 
sioner Kondorman,  gruffly. 

Tears  were  in  Peter's  eyes. 

"You  see — you  see "  he  got  out  with  an  effort,  "it 

would  be  my  last  chance  to  wear  the  uniform — and  I — 
wanted  —  somebody  —  to  —  see  —  me  —  in  —  it  — 
just  —  once." 

The  Commissioner  stroked  his  chin  reflectively. 

"Were  you  scheduled  to  go  out  on  post  for  instruc- 
tion," he  asked,  "if  you  passed  your  examination?" 

"Yes,  sir.    From  eight  to  eleven." 

The  Commissioner  thought  a  moment. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I'll  let  you  go.  It  won't  alter  the 
case  any,  of  course.  You're  through,  here.  Turn  in 
your  uniform  by  eleven  thirty,  sure." 

Peter  mumbled  his  thanks,  and  went  out  of  the 
office  with  shoulders  that  drooped  as  if  he  were  carry- 
ing a  safe  on  them. 


It  waa  with  heavy  steps  and  a  heavier  heart  that 
little  Peter  Mullaney,  by  the  side  of  his  mentor,  passed 
the  corner  where  Judy  McNulty  stood  proudly  waiting 
for  him.  He  saluted  her  gravely  with  two  fingers  to  his 
visor — police  officers  never  bow — and  kept  his  eyes 
straight  ahead.  He  did  not  have  the  heart  to  stop,  to 
speak  to  her,  to  tell  her  what  had  happened  to  him. 
He  hadn't  even  told  Officer  Gaffney.  He  stalked  along 
in  bitter  silence;  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  his  shoes,  the 
stout,  shiny  police  shoes  he  had  bought  to  wear  at  his 
graduation,  the  shoes  he  was  to  have  worn  when  he 


Where  is  the  Tropic  of  Capricorn?  157 

stepped  up  to  the  Commissioner  and  received  his  shield, 
with  head  erect  and  a  high  heart.  His  empty  hands 
hung  heavily  at  his  sides;  there  was  no  baton  of  author- 
ity in  them;  there  never  would  be.  Beneath  the  place 
his  silver  shield  would  never  cover  now  was  a  cold 
numbness. 


"Damn  the  Tropic  of  Capricorn,"  came  from  between 
clenched  teeth,  "Damn  the  Tropic  of  Capricorn." 

Gaffney's  quick  ears  heard  him. 

"Still  thinkin'  about  the  Tropic  of  Capricorn?"  he 
asked,  not  knowing  that  the  words  made  Peter  wince. 
"Well,  me  bye,  'twill  do  no  harm  to  know  where  it  is. 
I'm  not  denyin'  that  it's  a  gran'  thing  for  a  cop  to  be  a 
scholar.  But  just  the  same  'tis  me  firm  belief  that  a 
man  may  be  able  to  tell  the  difference  bechune  a  be- 
gonia and  a  petunia,  he  may  be  able  to  tell  where  the 
— now — Tropic  of  Unicorn  is,  he  may  know  who  wrote 
"In  the  Sweet  Bye  and  Bye,"  and  who  invented  the 
sprinklin'  cart,  he  may  be  able  to  tell  the  population  of 
Peking  and  Pann  Yann,  but  he  ain't  a  cop  at  all  if  he 
iver  runs  away  whin  needed.  Ye  can  stake  your  shield 
on  that,  me  bye." 

His  shield  ?  Peter  dug1  his  nails  into  the  palm  of  his 
band.  Blind  hate  against  the  Commissioner,  against 
the  whole  department,  flared  up  in  him.  He'd  strip 
the  uniform  off  on  the  spot,  he'd  hurl  it  into  the  gutter, 
he'd 

Officer  Gaffney  had  stopped  short.  A  woman  was 
coming  through  the  night,  running.  As  she  panted  up 
to  them  in  the  quiet,  deserted  street,  the  two  men  saw 
that  she  was  a  middle-aged  woman  in  a  wrapper,  and 
that  she  was  white  with  fright. 


158    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

"Burglars,"  she  gasped. 

"Where  ?"  rapped  out  Officer  Gaffney. 

"Number  97." 

"Be  calm,  ma'am.  What  makes  ye  think  they're 
burglars  ?" 

"I  heard  them.  .  .  .  Moving  around.  ...  In  the 
drawing  room.  .  .  .  Upstairs." 

"Who  are  you  ?"  asked  the  old  policeman,  imperturb- 
ably. 

"Mrs.  Finn — caretaker.  The  family  is  away." 

"Pether,"  said  Officer  Gaffney,  "you  stay  here  and 
mind  the  beat  like  a  good  bucko,  while  I  stroll  down 
to  ninety-sivin  wid  Mrs.  Finn." 

"Let  me  come  too,  Jawn,"  cried  Peter. 

Gaffney  laid  his  big  hand  on  little  Peter's  chest. 

"  'Tig  probably  a  cat  movin'  around,"  he  said  softly 
so  that  Mrs.  Finn  could  not  hear.  "Lonely  wimmin 
is  always  hearin'  things.  Besides  me  ambitious  but 
diminootive  frind,  if  they  was  yeggs  what  good  could 
ye  do  wid  no  stick  and  no  gun  ?  You  stay  here  on  the 
corner  like  I'm  tellin'  you  and  I'll  be  back  in  ten  min- 
utes by  the  clock." 

Peter  Mullaney  waited  on  the  corner.  He  saw  the 
bulky  figure  of  Officer  Gaffney  proceed  at  a  dignified 
but  rapid  waddle  down  the  block,  followed  by  the 
smaller,  more  agitated  figure  of  the  woman.  He  saw 
Officer  Gaffney  go  into  the  basement  entrance,  and  he 
saw  Mrs.  Finn  hesitate,  then  timidly  follow.  He 
waited.  A  long  minute  passed.  Another.  Another. 
Then  the  scream  of  a  woman  hit  his  ears.  He  saw  Mrs. 
Finn  dart  from  the  house,  wringing  her  hands,  scream- 
ing. He  sprinted  down  to  her. 


Where  is  the  Tropic  of  Capricorn?  159 

"They've  kilt  him/'  screamed  the  woman.  "Oh, 
they've  kilt  the  officer." 

"Who  ?     Tell  me.     Quick !" 

"The  yeggs,"  she  wailed.  "There's  two  of  them. 
The  officer  went  upstairs.  They  shot  him.  He  rolled 
down.  Don't  go  in.  They'll  shoot  you.  Send  for 
help." 

Peter  stood  still.  He  was  not  thinking  of  the  yeggs, 
or  of  Gaffney.  He  was  hearing  Kondorman  ask, 
"Where  is  the  Tropic  of  Capricorn  ?"  He  was  hearing 
Kondorman  say,  "You've  failed."  Something  had  him 
tight.  Something  was  asking  him,  "Why  go  in  that 
house  ?  Why  risk  your  life  ?  You're  not  a  cop.  You'll 
never  be  a  cop.  They  threw  you  out.  They  made  a 
fool  of  you  for  a  trifle." 

Peter  started  back  from  the  open  door;  he  looked 
down;  the  street  light  fell  on  the  brass  buttons  of  his 
uniform;  the  words  of  the  old  policeman  darted  across 
his  brain :  "A  cop  never  runs  away  when  needed." 

He  caught  his  breath  and  plunged  into  the  house. 
At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  leading  up  to  the  second  floor 
he  saw  by  the  street  light  that  came  through  the  opened 
door,  the  sprawling  form  of  a  big  man ;  the  light  glanced 
from  the  silver  badge  on  his  broad  chest.  Peter  bent 
over  hastily. 

"Is  it  you,  Pether?"  breathed  Gaffney,  with  diffi- 
culty. "They  got  me.  Got  me  good.  Wan  of  thim 
knocked  me  gun  from  me  hand  and  the  other  plugged 
me.  Through  the  chist.  I'm  done  for,  Pether.  I  can't 
breathe.  Stop,  Pether,  stop!" 

The  veteran  tried  to  struggle  to  his  feet,  but  sank 
back,  holding  fiercely  to  Peter's  leg. 

"Let  me  go,  Jawn.  Let  me  go,"  whispered  Peter 
hoarsely. 


160    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

"They'll  murder  you,  Pether.  It's  two  men  to  wan, 
— and  they're  armed." 

"Let  me  go  in,  I  tell  you,  Jawn.  Let  me  go.  A  good 
cop  never  runs — you  said  it  yourself — let  me  go " 

Slowly  the  grip  on  Peter's  leg  relaxed ;  the  dimming 
eyes  of  the  wounded  man  had  suddenly  grown  very 
bright.  J 

"Ye're  right,  me  little  bucko,"  he  said  faintly.  "Ye'll 
be  a  credit  to  the  foorce,  Pether."  And  then  the  light 
died  out  of  his  eyes  and  the  hand  that  had  grasped 
Peter  fell  limp  to  the  floor. 

Peter  was  up  the  stairs  that  led  to  the  second  floor 
in  three  swift,  wary  jumps.  He  heard  a  skurry  of 
footsteps  in  the  back  of  the  house.  Dashing  a  potted 
fern  from  its  slender  wooden  stand,  he  grasped  the  end 
of  the  stand,  and  swinging  it  like  a  baseball  bat,  he 
pushed  through  velvet  curtains  into  a  large  room.  There 
was  enough  light  there  from  the  moon  for  him  to  see 
two  black  figures  prying  desperately  at  a  door.  They 
wheeled  as  he  entered.  Bending  low  he  hurled  him- 
self at  them  as  he  had  done  when  playing  football  on 
a  back  lot.  There  was  a  flash  so  near  that  it  burned 
his  face;  he  felt  a  sharp  fork  of  pain  cross  his  head 
as  if  his  scalp  had  been  slashed  by  a  red-hot  knife. 
With  all  the  force  in  his  taut  body  he  swung  the  stand 
at  the  nearest  man;  it  caught  the  man  across  the  face 
and  he  went  down  with  a  broken,  guttural  cry.  A  sec- 
ond and  a  third  shot  from  the  revolver  of  the  other 
man  roared  in  Peter's  ears.  Still  crouching,  Peter 
dived  through  the  darkness  at  the  knees  of  the  man  with 
the  gun;  together  they  went  to  the  floor  in  a  cursing, 
grunting  tangle. 

The  burglar  struggled  to  jab  down  the  butt  of  his 
revolver  on  the  head  of  the  small  man  who  had  fas- 


Where  is  the  Tropic  of  Capricorn?  161 

tened  himself  to  him  with  the  death  grip  of  a  mongoose 
on  a  cobra.  They  thrashed  about  the  room.  Peter  had 
gotten  a  hold  on  the  man's  pistol  wrist  and  he  held  to 
it  while  the  man  with  his  free  hand  rained  blow  after 
blow  on  the  defenseless  face  and  bleeding  head  of  the 
little  man.  As  they  fought  in  the  darkness,  the  burglar 
with  a  sudden  violent  wrench  tore  loose  the  clinging 
Peter,  and  hurled  him  against  a  table,  whicli  crashed 
to  the  floor  with  the  impact  of  Peter's  one  hundred  and 
thirty  pounds  of  muscle  and  bone. 

As  Peter  hurtled  back,  his  arms  shot  out  mechanically 
to  break  his  fall;  one  groping  hand  closed  on  a  heavy 
iron  candle-stick  that  had  stood  on  the  table.  He  was 
up  in  a  flash,  the  candle-stick  in  his  hand.  His  eyes 
were  blinded  by  the  blood  from  his  wound ;  he  dashed 
the  blood  away  with  his  coat-sleeve.  With  a  short, 
sharp  motion  he  hurled  the  candle-stick  at  his  oppo- 
nent's head,  outlined  against  a  window,  not  six  feet 
away.  At  the  moment  the  missile  flew  from  Peter's 
hand,  the  yegg  steadied  himself  and  fired.  Then  he 
reeled  to  the  floor  as  the  candle-stick's  heavy  base  struck 
him  between  the  eyes. 

For  the  ghost  of  a  second,  Peter  Mullaney  stood 
swaying;  then  his  hands  clawed  at  the  place  on  his 
chest  where  his  shield  might  have  been  as  if  his  heart 
had  caught  fire  and  he  wished  to  tear  it  out  of  himself ; 
then,  quite  gently,  he  crumpled  to  the  floor,  and  there 
was  the  quiet  of  night  in  the  room. 

As  little  Peter  Mullaney  lay  in  the  hospital  trying 
to  see  through  his  bandages  the  flowers  Judy  MdSTulty 
had  brought  him,  he  heard  the  voice  of  the  doctor  say- 
ing: 

"Here  he  is.     Nasty  chest  wound.     We  almost  lost 


162    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

him.  He  didn't  seem  to  care  much  whether  he  pulled 
through  or  not.  Was  delirious  for  hours.  Kept  mut- 
tering something  about  the  Tropic  of  Capricorn.  But 
I  think  he'll  come  through  all  right  now.  You  just 
can't  kill  one  of  these  tough  little  micks." 

Peering  through  his  bandages,  Peter  Mullaney  saw 
the  square  shoulders  and  stern  face  of  Commissioner 
Kondorman. 

"Good  morning,  Mullaney,"  the  Commissioner  said, 
in  his  formal  official  voice.  "I'm  glad  to  hear  that 
you're  going  to  get  better." 

"Thank  you,  Commissioner,"  murmured  Peter, 
watching  him  with  wondering  eyes. 

Commissioner  Kondorman  felt  round  in  an  inside 
pocket  and  brought  out  a  small  box  from  which  he 
carefully  took  something  that  glittered  in  the  morning 
sunlight.  Bending  over  the  bed,  he  pinned  it  on  the 
night-shirt  of  Peter  Mullaney.  Peter  felt  it;  stopped 
breathing;  felt  it  again;  slowly  pulled  it  out  so  that 
he  could  look  at  it. 

"It  was  Officer  John  Gaffney's,"  said  the  Commis- 
sioner, and  his  voice  was  trying  hard  to  be  official  and 
formal,  but  it  was  getting  husky.  "He  was  a  brave 
officer.  I  wanted  another  brave  officer  to  have  his 
shield." 

"But,  Commissioner,"  cried  Peter,  winking  very  hard 
with  both  eyes,  for  they  were  blurring,  "haven't  you 
made  a  mistake?  You  must  have  got  the  wrong  man. 
Don't  you  remember  ?  I'm  the  one  that  said  the  Tropic 
of  Capricorn  is  in  the  Bronx !" 

"Officer  Mullaney,"  said  Commissioner  Kondorman 
in  an  odd  voice,  "if  a  cop  like  you  says  the  Tropic  of 
Capricorn  is  in  the  Bronx,  then,  by  the  lord  Harry, 
that's  where  the  Tropic  of  Capricorn  is." 


VIII :  Mr.  Braddys  Bottle 


VIII:  Mr.  Braddy's  Bottle 

§1 

/TTfHIS,"  said  Mr.  William  Lum  solemnly,  "is  the 

I  very  las'  bottle  of  this  stuff  in  these  United 
-*  States!" 

It  was  a  dramatic  moment.  He  held  it  aloft  with  the 
pride  and  tender  care  of  a  recent  parent  exhibiting 
a  first-born  child.  Mr.  Hugh  Braddy  emitted  a  long, 
low  whistle,  expressive  of  the  awe  due  the  occasion. 

"You  don't  tell  me!"  he  said. 

"Yes,  siree !  There  ain't  another  bottle  of  this  won- 
derful old  hooch  left  anywhere.  Not  anywhere.  A  man 
couldn't  get  one  like  it  for  love  nor  money.  Not  for 
love  nor  money."  He  paused  to  regard  the  bottle 
fondly.  "Nor  anything  else,"  he  added  suddenly. 

Mr.  Braddy  beamed  fatly.  His  moon  face — like  a 
two-hundred-and-twenty-pound  Kewpie's — wore  a  look 
of  pride  and  responsibility.  It  was  his  bottle. 

"You  don't  tell  me !"  he  said. 

"Yes,  siree.  Must  be  all  of  thirty  years  old,  if  it's  a 
day.  Mebbe  forty.  Mebbe  fifty.  Why,  that  stuff  13 
worth  a  dollar  a  sniff,  if  it's  worth  a  jit.  And  you  not 
a  drinking  man !  Wadda  pity !  Wadda  pity !" 

There  was  a  shade  of  envy  in  Mr.  Lum's  tone,  for 
Mr.  Lum  was,  or  had  been,  a  drinking  man ;  yet  Fate, 
ever  perverse,  had  decreed  that  Mr.  Braddy,  teetotaler, 
should  find  the  ancient  bottle  while  poking  about  in  the 

165 


166    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

cellar  of  his  very  modest  new  house — rented — in  that 
part  of  Long  Island  City  where  small,  wooden  cottages 
break  out  in  clusters,  here  and  there,  in  a  species  of 
municipal  measles. 

Mr.  Braddy,  on  finding  the  treasure,  had  immediately 
summoned  Mr.  Lum  from  his  larger  and  more  preten- 
tious house  near  by,  as  one  who  would  be  able  to  ap- 
praise the  find,  and  he  and  Mr.  Lum  now  stood  on  the 
very  spot  in  the  cellar  where,  beneath  a  pile  of  old  win- 
dow blinds,  the  venerable  liquor  had  been  found.  Mr. 
Braddy,  it  was  plain,  thought  very  highly  of  Mr.  Lum's 
opinions,  and  that  great  man  was  good-naturedly  tol- 
erant of  the  more  placid  and  adipose  Mr.  Braddy,  who 
was  known — behind  his  back — in  the  rug  department 
of  the  Great  Store  as  "Ole  Hippopotamus."  Not  that 
he  would  have  resented  it,  had  the  veriest  cash  boy  called 
him  by  this  uncomplimentary  but  descriptive  nickname 
to  his  face,  for  Mr.  Braddy  was  the  sort  of  person  who 
never  resents  anything. 

"Y'know,  Mr.  Lum,"  he  remarked,  crinkling  his  pink 
brow  in  philosophic  thought,  "sometimes  I  wish  I  had 
been  a  drinking  man.  I  never  minded  if  a  man  took  a 
drink.  Not  that  I  had  any  patience  with  these  here 
booze  fighters.  No.  Enough  is  enough,  I  always  say. 
But  if  a  fella  wanted  to  take  a  drink,  outside  of  busi- 
ness hours,  of  course,  or  go  off  on  a  spree  once  in  a 
while — well,  I  never  saw  no  harm  in  it.  I  often  wished 
I  could  do  it  myself." 

"Well,  why  the  dooce  didn't  you?"  inquired  Mr. 
Lum. 

"As  a  matter  of  solid  fact,  I  was  scared  to.  That's 
the  truth.  I  was  always  scared  I'd  get  pinched  or  fall 
down  a  manhole  or  something.  You  see,  I  never  did 
have  much  nerve."  This  was  an  unusual  burst  of  con- 


Mr.  Braddy  s  Bottle  167 

fidence  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Braddy,  who,  since  he  had 
moved  into  Mr.  Lum's  neighborhood  a  month  before, 
had  played  a  listening  role  in  his  conferences  with  Mr. 
Lum,  who  was  a  thin,  waspy  man  of  forty-four,  in  am- 
bush behind  a  fierce  pair  of  mustachios.  Mr.  Braddy, 
essence  of  diffidence  that  he  was,  had  confined  his  re- 
marks to  "You  don't  tell  me!"  or,  occasionally,  "Ain't 
it  the  truth?"  in  the  manner  of  a  Greek  chorus. 

Now  inspired,  perhaps,  by  the  discovery  that  he  was 
the  owner  of  a  priceless  bottle  of  spirits,  he  unbosomed 
himself  to  Mr.  Lum.  Mr.  Lum  made  answer. 

"Scared  to  drink?  Scared  of  anything?  Bosh! 
Tommyrot!  Everybody's  got  nerve.  Only  some  don't 
use  it,"  said  Mr.  Lum,  who  owned  a  book  called  "The 
Power  House  in  Man's  Mind,"  and  who  subscribed 
for,  and  quoted  from,  a  pamphlet  for  successful  men, 
called  "I  Can  and  I  Will." 

"Mebbe,"  said  Mr.  Braddy.  "But  the  first  and  only 
time  I  took  a  drink  I  got  a  bad  scare.  When  I  was  a 
young  feller,  just  starting  in  the  rugs  in  the  Great 
Store,  I  went  out  with  the  gang  one  night,  and,  just 
to  be  smart,  I  orders  beer.  Them  was  the  days  when 
beer  was  a  nickel  for  a  stein  a  foot  tall.  The  minute 
I  taste  the  stuff  I  feel  uncomfortable.  I  don't  dare  not 
drink  it,  for  fear  the  gang  would  give  me  the  laugh. 
So  I  Tips  and  drinks  it,  every  drop,  although  it  tastes 
worse  and  worse.  Well,  sir,  that  beer  made  me  sicker 
than  a  dog.  I  haven't  tried  any  drink  stronger  than 
malted  milk  since.  And  that  was  all  of  twenty  years 
ago.  It  wasn't  that  I  thought  a  little  drinking  a  sin. 
I  was  just  scared ;  that's  all.  Some  of  the  other  fellows 
in  the  rugs  drank— till  they  passed  a  law  against  it. 
Why,  I  once  seen  Charley  Freedman  sell  a  party  a  gen- 


168    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

nine,  expensive  Bergamo  rug  for  two  dollars  and  a  half 
when  he  was  pickled.  But  when  he  was  sober  there 
wasn't  a  better  salesman  in  the  rugs." 

Mr.  Lum  offered  no  comment;  he  was  weighing  the 
cob-webbed  bottle  in  his  hand,  and  holding  it  to  the 
light  in  a  vain  attempt  to  peer  through  the  golden- 
brown  fluid.  Mr.  Braddy  went  on : 

"I  guess  I  was  born  timid.  I  dunno.  I  wanted 
to  join  a  lodge,  but  I  was  scared  of  the  'nitiation.  I 
wanted  to  move  out  to  Jersey,  but  I  didn't.  Why, 
all  by  life  I've  wanted  to  take  a  Turkish  bath;  but 
somehow,  every  time  I  got  to  the  door  of  the  place  I 
got  cold  feet  and  backed  out.  I  wanted  a  raise,  too, 
and  by  golly,  between  us,  I  believe  they'd  give  it  to  me ; 
but  I  keep  putting  off  asking  for  it  and  putting  off  and 
putting  off " 

"I  was  like  that — once,"  put  in  Mr.  Lum.  "But 
it  don't  pay.  I'd  still  be  selling  shoes  in  the  Great 
Store — and  looking  at  thousands  of  feet  every  day  and 
saying  thousands  of  times,  'Yes,  madam,  this  is  a 
three-A,  and  very  smart,  too,'  when  it  is  really  a  six-D 
and  looks  like  hell  on  her.  ~No  wonder  I  took  a  drink 
or  two  in  those  days." 

He  set  down  the  bottle  and  flared  up  with  a  sudden, 
fierce  bristling  of  his  mustaches. 

"And  now  they  have  to  come  along  and  take  a  man's 
liquor  away  from  him — drat  'em !  What  did  our  boys 
fight  for?  Liberty,  I  say.  And  then,  after  being 
mowed  down  in  France,  they  come  home  to  find  the 
country  dry!  It  ain't  fair,  I  say.  Of  course,  don't 
think  for  a  minute  that  I  mind  losing  the  licker.  Not 
me.  I  always  could  take  it  or  leave  it  alone.  But  what 
I  hate  is  having  them  say  a  man  can't  drink  this  and 
Be  can't  drink  that.  They'll  be  getting  after  our  smokes, 


Mr.  Braddy  s  Bottle  169 

next.  I  read  in  the  paper  last  night  a  piece  that  asked 
something  that's  been  on  my  mind  a  long  time :  'Whither 
are  we  drifting  ?' ' 

"I  dunno,"  said  Mr.  Braddy. 

"You'd  think,"  went  on  Mr.  Lum,  not  heeding,  as  a 
sense  of  oppression  and  injustice  surged  through  him, 
"that  liquor  harmed  men.  As  if  it  harmed  anybody  but 
the  drunkards!  Liquor  never  hurt  a  successful  man; 
no,  siree.  Look  at  me !" 

Mr.  Braddy  looked.  He  had  heard  Mr.  Lum  make 
the  speech  that  customarily  followed  this  remark  a  num- 
ber of  times,  but  it  never  failed  to  interest  him. 

"Look  at  me!"  said  Mr.  Lum,  slapping  his  chest. 
"Buyer  in  the  shoes  in  the  Great  Store,  and  that  ain't 
BO  worse,  if  I  do  say  it  myself.  That's  what  nerve  did. 
What  if  I  did  used  to  get  a  snootf ul  now  and  then  ?  I 
had  the  self-confidence,  and  that  did  the  trick.  When 
old  man  Briggs  croaked,  I  heard  that  the  big  boss 
was  looking  around  outside  the  store  for  a  man  to  take 
his  place  as  buyer  in  the  shoes.  So  I  goes  right  to  the 
boss,  and  I  says,  'Look  here,  Mr.  Berger,  I  been  in  the 
shoes  eighteen  years,  and  I  know  shoes  from  A  to  Z, 
and  back  again.  I  can  fill  Briggs'  shoes/  I  says.  And 
that  gets  him  laughing,  although  I  didn't  mean  it  that 
way,  for  I  don't  think  humor  has  any  place  in  busi- 
ness. 

"  'Well,'  he  says,  'you  certainly  got  confidence  in 
yourself.  I'll  see  what  you  can  do  in  Briggs'  job.  It 
will  pay  forty  a  week.'  I  knew  old  Briggs  was  getting 
more  than  forty,  and  I  could  see  that  Berger  needed 
me,  so  I  spins  on  him  and  I  laughs  in  his  face.  'Forty 
popcorn  balls!'  I  says  to  him.  'Sixty  is  the  least  that 
job's  worth,  and  you  know  it.'  Well,  to  make  a  long 
story  short,  he  comes  through  with  sixty  1" 


170    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

This  story  never  failed  to  fascinate  Mr.  Braddy,  for 
two  reasons.  First,  he  liked  to  be  taken  into  the  con- 
fidence of  a  man  who  made  so  princely  a  salary;  and, 
second,  it  reminded  him  of  the  tormenting  idea  that 
he  was  worth  more  than  the  thirty  dollars  he  found 
every  Friday  in  his  envelope,  and  it  bolstered  up  his 
spirit.  He  felt  that  with  the  glittering  example  of  Mr. 
Lum  and  the  constant  harassings  by  his  wife,  who  had 
and  expressed  strong  views  on  the  subject,  he  would 
some  day  conquer  his  qualms  and  demand  the  raise  he 
felt  to  be  due  him. 

"I  wish  I  had  your  crust,"  he  said  to  Mr.  Lum  in 
tones  of  frank  admiration. 

"You  have,"  rejoined  Mr.  Lum.  "I  didn't  know 
that  I  had,  for  a  long,  long  time,  and  then  it  struck  me 
one  day,  as  I  was  trying  an  Oxford-brogue  style  K6 
on  a  dame,  'How  did  Schwab  get  where  he  is  ?  How  did 
Rockefeller?  How  did  this  here  Vanderlip?  Was  it 
by  being  humble?  Was  it  by  setting  still?'  You  bet 
your  sweet  boots  it  wasn't.  I  just  been  reading  an 
article  in  'I  Can  and  I  Will/  called  'Big  Bugs — And 
How  They  Got  That  Way/  and  it  tells  all  about  those 
fellows  and  how  most  of  them  wasn't  nothing  but 
newspaper  reporters  and  puddlers — whatever  that  is — 
until  one  day  they  said,  'I'm  going  to  do  something 
decisive!'  And  they  did  it.  That's  the  idea.  Do 
something  decisive.  That's  what  I  did,  and  look  at 
me!  Braddy,  why  the  devil  don't  you  do  something 
decisive  ?" 

"What?"  asked  Mr.  Braddy  meekly. 

"Anything.  Take  a  plunge.  Why,  I  bet  you  never 
took  a  chance  in  your  life.  You  got  good  stuff  in  you, 
Braddy,  too.  There  ain't  a  better  salesman  in  the  rugs. 
Why,  only  the  other  day  I  overheard  Berger  say,  'That 


Mr.  Braddy  s  Bottle  171 

fellow  Braddy  knows  more  about  rugs  than  the  Mayor 
of  Bagdad  himself.  Too  bad  he  hasn't  more  push  in 
him." 

"I  guess  mebbe  he's  right,"  said  Mr.  Braddy. 

"Eight?  Of  course,  he's  right  about  you  being  a 
crack  salesman.  Why,  you  could  sell  corkscrews  in 
Kansas,"  said  Mr.  Lum.  "You  got  the  stuff,  all  right. 
But  the  trouble  is  you  can  sell  everything  but  yourself. 
Get  busy!  Act!  Do  something!  Make  a  decision! 
Take  a  step!" 

Mr.  Braddy  said  nothing.  Little  lines  furrowed  his 
vast  brow ;  he  half  closed  his  small  eyes ;  his  round  face 
took  on  an  intent,  scowling  look.  He  was  thinking. 
Silence  filled  the  cellar.  Then,  with  the  air  of  a  man 
whose  mind  is  made  up,  Hugh  Braddy  said  a  decisive 
and  remarkable  thing. 

"Mr.  Bill  Lum,"  he  said,  "I'm  going  to  get  drunk !" 

"What?  You?  Hugh  Braddy?  Drunk?  My 
God !"  The  idea  was  too  much  even  for  the  mind  of 
Mr.  Lum. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Braddy,  in  a  hollow  voice,  like 
Cesar's  at  the  Kubicon,  "I'm  going  to  drink  what's  in 
that  bottle  this  very  night." 

"Not  all  of  it?"  Mr.  Lum,  as  an  expert  in  such 
things,  registered  dismay. 

"As  much  as  is  necessary,"  was  the  firm  response. 
Mr.  Lum  brightened  considerably  at  this. 

"Better  let  me  help  you.  There's  enough  for  both  of 
us.  Plenty,"  he  suggested. 

"Are  you  sure  ?"  asked  Mr.  Braddy  anxiously. 

"Sure,"  said  Mr.  Lum. 


172    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Petti pon 

§2 

And  he  was  right  There  wag  more  than  enough.  It 
was  nine  o'clock  that  night  when  the  cellar  door  of 
Mr.  BraddVs  small  house  opened  cautiously,  and  Mr. 
Braddy  followed  his  stub  nose  into  the  moonlight.  Mr. 
Lum,  unsteady  but  gay,  followed. 

Mr.  Braddy,  whose  customary  pace  was  a  slow,  digni- 
fied waddle,  immediately  broke  into  a  brisk  trot. 

"Doan'  go  so  fas',  Hoo,"  called  Mr.  Lum,  for  they 
had  long  since  reached  the  first-name  stage. 

"Gotta  get  to  city,  N'Yawk,  b'fore  it's  too  late," 
explained  Mr.  Braddy,  reining  down  to  a  walk. 

"Too  late  for  what,  Hoo  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Lum. 

"I  dunno,"  said  Mr.  Braddy. 

They  made  their  way,  by  a  series  of  skirmishes  and 
flank  movements,  to  the  subway  station,  and  caught  a 
train  for  Manhattan.  Their  action  in  doing  this  was 
purely  automatic. 

Once  aboard,  they  began  a  duet,  which  they  plucked 
out  of  the  dim  past: 

"Oh,  dem  golden  slippers!  Oh,  dem  golden  slip- 
pers!" 

This,  unfortunately,  was  all  they  could  remember 
of  it,  but  it  was  enough  to  supply  them  with  a  theme 
and  variations  that  lasted  until  they  arrived  in  the  cata- 
combs far  below  the  Grand  Central  Station.  There  they 
were  shooed  out  by  a  vigilant  subway  guard. 

They  proceeded  along  the  brightly  lighted  streets. 
Mr.  Braddy's  step  was  that  of  a  man  walking  a  tight- 
rope. Mr.  Lum's  method  of  progression  was  a  series 
of  short  spurts.  Between  the  Grand  Central  and  Times 
Square  they  passed  some  one  thousand  eight  hundred 
and  twenty-nine  persons,  of  whom  one  thousand  eight 


Mr.  Braddy  s  Bottle  173 

hundred  and  twenty-nine  remarked,  "Where  did  they 
get  it?" 

On  Broadway  they  saw  a  crowd  gathered  in  front  of 
a  building. 

"Fight,"  said  Mr.  Braddy  hopefully. 

"  '^accident,"  thought  Mr.  Lum.  At  least  a  hun- 
dred men  and  women  were  industriously  elbowing  each 
other  and  craning  necks  in  the  hope  of  seeing  the  center 
of  attraction.  Mr.  Braddy,  ordinarily  the  most  timid 
of  innocent  bystanders,  was  now  a  lion  in  point  of  cour- 
age. 

"Gangway,"  he  called.  "We're  'tectives,"  he  added 
bellicosely  to  those  who  protested,  as  he  and  Mr.  Lum 
shoved  and  lunged  their  way  through  the  rapidly  grow- 
ing crowd.  The  thing  which  had  caused  so  many  peo- 
ple to  stop,  to  crane  necks,  to  push,  was  a  small  news- 
boy who  had  dropped  a  dime  down  through  an  iron  grat- 
ing and  who  was  fishing  for  it  with  a  piece  of  chewing 
gum  tied  on  the  end  of  a  string. 

They  spent  twenty  minutes  giving  advice  and  sugges- 
tions to  the  fisher,  such  as: 

"A  leetle  to  the  left,  now.  Naw,  naw.  To  the  right. 
Now  you  got  it.  Shucks !  You  missed  it.  Try  again." 
At  length  they  were  rewarded  by  seeing  the  boy  retrieve 
the  dime,  just  before  the  crowd  had  grown  to  such  pro- 
portions that  it  blocked  the  traffic. 

The  two  adventurers  continued  on  their  way,  pausing 
once  to  buy  four  frankfurters,  which  they  ate  noisily, 
one  in  each  hand. 

Suddenly  the  veteran  drinker,  Mr.  Lum,  was  struck 
by  a  disquieting  thought. 

"  "Hoo,  I  gotta  go  home.    My  wife'll  be  back  from  the 
movies  by  eleven,  and  if  I  ain't  home  and  in  bed  when 


174    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Petti pon 

she  gets  there,  she'll  skin  me  alive;  that's  what  she'll 
do." 

Mr.  Braddy  was  struck  by  the  application  of  this  to 
his  own  case. 

"Waddabout  me,  hey  ?  Waddabout  me,  B'lum  ?"  he 
asked  plaintively.  "Angelica  will  just  about  kill  me." 

Mr.  Lum,  leaning  against  the  Automat,  darkly  con- 
sidered this  eventuality.  At  length  he  spoke. 

"You  go  getta  Turkish  bath.  Tell  'Gellica  f  hadda 
stay  in  store  all  night  to  take  inventory.  Turkish 
bath'll  make  you  fresh  as  a  daisy.  Fresh  as  a  li'l'  daisy 

— fresh  as  a  li'l'  daisy "  Saying  which  Mr.  Lum 

disappeared  into  the  eddying  crowd  and  was  gone.  Mr. 
Braddy  was  alone  in  the  great  city. 

But  he  was  not  dismayed.  While  disposing  of  the 
ancient  liquor,  he  and  Mr.  Lum  had  discussed  philoso- 
phies of  life,  and  Mr.  Braddy  had  decided  that  his  was, 
"A  man  can  do  what  he  is  a-mind  to."  And  Mr.  Braddy 
was  very  much  a-mind  to  take  a  Turkish  bath.  To  him 
it  represented  the  last  stroke  that  cut  the  shackles  of 
timidity.  "I  can  and  I  will,"  he  said  a  bit  thickly,  in 
imitation  of  Mr.  Lum's  heroes. 

§3 

There  was  a  line  of  men,  mostly  paunchy,  waiting  to 
be  assigned  dressing  rooms  when  Mr.  Braddy  entered 
the  Turkish  bath,  egged  sternly  on  by  his  new  philoso- 
phy. He  did  not  shuffle  meekly  into  the  lowest  place 
and  wait  the  fulfillment  of  the  biblical  promise  that 
some  one  would  say,  "Friend,  go  up  higher."  IsTot  he. 
"I  can  and  I  will,"  he  remarked  to  the  man  at  the  end 
of  the  line,  and,  forthwith,  with  a  majestic,  if  rolling, 
gait,  advanced  to  the  window  where  a  rabbit  of  a  man, 


Mr.  Braddy  s  Bottle  175 

with  nose  glasses  chained  to  his  head,  was  sleepily  deal- 
ing out  keys  and  taking  in  valuables.  The  other  men 
in  line  were  too  surprised  to  protest.  Mr.  Braddy  took 
off  his  huge  derby  hat  and  rapped  briskly  on  the  coun- 
ter. 

"Service,  here.    LiT  service!" 

The  Rabbit  with  the  nose  glasses  blinked  mildly. 

"Wotja  want?"  he  inquired. 

"Want  t'  be  made  fresh  as  a  KT  daisy,"  said  Mr. 
Braddy. 

"Awright,"  said  the  Rabbit,  yawning.  "Here's  a 
key  for  locker  number  thirty-six.  Got  any  valuables? 
One  dollar,  please." 

Mr.  Braddy,  after  some  fumbling,  produced  the  dol- 
lar, a  dog-eared  wallet,  a  tin  watch,  a  patent  cigar  cut- 
ter, a  pocket  piece  from  a  pickle  exhibit  at  the  World's 
Fair  in  Chicago,  and  some  cigar  coupons. 

The  Rabbit  handed  him  a  large  key  on  a  rubber 
band. 

"Put  it  on  your  ankle.    Next,"  he  yawned. 

And  then  Mr.  Braddy  stepped  through  the  white 
door  that,  to  him,  led  into  the  land  of  adventure  and 
achievement. 

He  found  himself  in  a  brightly  lighted  corridor  per- 
vaded by  an  aroma  not  unlike  the  sort  a  Chinese  hand 
laundry  has.  There  were  rows  of  little,  white  doors, 
with  numbers  painted  on  them.  Mr.  Braddy  began  at 
once  a  search  for  his  own  dressing  room,  No.  36 ;  but 
after  investigating  the  main  street  and  numerous  side 
alleys,  in  a  somewhat  confused  but  resolute  frame  of 
mind,  he  discovered  that  he  was  lost  in  a  rabbit  warren 
of  white  woodwork.  He  found  Nos.  96,  66,  46,  and  6, 
but  he  could  not  find  No.  36.  He  tried  entering  one  of 
the  booths  at  random,  but  was  greeted  with  a  not-too- 


176    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

cordial,  "Hey,  bo;  wrong  stall.  Back  out!"  from  an 
ample  gentleman  made  up  as  grandpa  in  the  advertise- 
ments of  Non-Skid  underwear.  He  tried  bawling, 
"Service,  li'l'  service,"  and  rapping  on  the  woodwork 
with  his  derby,  but  nothing  happened,  so  he  replaced  his 
hat  on  his  head  and  resumed  his  search.  He  came  to  a 
door  with  no  number  on  it,  poished  it  open,  and  stepped 
boldly  into  the  next  room. 

Pat,  pat,  pat,  pat,  pat,  pat,  pat,  pat,  pat,  pat — it  was 
the  shower  bath  on  Mr.  Braddy's  hat. 

"  'Srainin',"  he  remarked  affably. 

An  attendant,  clad  in  short,  white  running  pants, 
spied  him  and  came  bounding  through  the  spray. 

"Hey,  mister,  why  don't  you  take  your  clothes  off?" 

"Can't  find  it,"  replied  Mr.  Braddy. 

"Can't  find  what  ?"  the  attendant  demanded. 

"Thirry-sizz." 

"Thirry  sizz  ?" 

"Yep,  thirry-sizz." 

"Aw,  he  means  room  number  thoity-six,"  said  a  voice 
from  under  one  of  the  showers. 

The  attendant  conducted  Mr.  Braddy  up  and  down 
the  white  rabbit  warren,  across  an  avenue,  through  a 
lane,  and  paused  at  last  before  No.  36.  Mr.  Braddy 
went  in,  and  the  attendant  followed. 

"Undress  you,  mister  ?" 

The  Mr.  Braddy  of  yesterday  would  have  been  too 
weak-willed  to  protest,  but  the  new  Mr.  Braddy  was  the 
master  of  his  fate,  the  captain  of  his  soul,  and  he  replied 
with  some  heat : 

"Say,  wadda  you  take  me  for  ?  Can  undress  m'self ." 
He  did  so,  muttering  the  while:  "Undress  me  ?  Wadda 
they  take  me  for  ?  Wadda  they  take  me  for  ?" 

Then  he  strode,  a  bit  uncertainly,  out  into  the  cor- 


Mr.  Braddy  s  Bottle  177 

ridor,  pink,  enormous,  his  key  dangling  from  his  ankle 
like  a  ball  and  chain.  The  man  in  the  white  running 
pants  piloted  Mr.  Braddy  into  the  hot  room.  Mr. 
Braddy  was  delighted,  intrigued  by  it  On  steamer 
chairs  reclined  other  large  men,  stripped  to  their  dia- 
mond rings,  which  glittered  faintly  in  the  dim-lit  room. 
They  made  guttural  noises,  as  little  rivulets  glided  down 
the  salmon-pink  mounds  of  flesh,  and  every  now  and 
then  they  drank  water  from  large  tin  cups.  Mr.  Braddy 
seated  himself  in  the  hot  room,  and  tried  to  read  a 
very  damp  copy  of  an  evening  paper,  which  he  decided 
was  in  a  foreign  language,  until  he  discovered  he  was 
holding  it  upside  down. 

An  attendant  approached  and  offered  him  a  cup  of 
water.  The  temptation  was  to  do  the  easy  thing — to 
take  the  proffered  cup ;  but  Mr.  Braddy  didn't  want  a 
drink  of  anything  just  then,  so  he  waved  it  away,  re- 
marking lightly,  "Never  drink  water,"  and  was  re- 
warded by  a  battery  of  bass  titters  from  the  pink  moun- 
tains about  him,  who,  it  developed  from  their  conversa- 
tion, were  all  very  important  persons,  indeed,  in  the 
world  of  finance.  But  in  time  Mr.  Braddy  began  to 
feel  unhappy.  The  heat  was  making  him  ooze  slowly 
away.  Hell,  he  thought,  must  be  like  this.  He  must 
act.  He  stood  up. 

"I  doan  like  this,"  he  bellowed.  An  attendant  came 
in  response  to  the  roar. 

"What,  you  still  in  the  hot  room?  Say,  mister,  it's 
a  wonder  you  ain't  been  melted  to  a  puddle  of  gravy. 
Here,  come  with  me.  I'll  send  you  through  the  steam 
room  to  Gawge,  and  Gawge  will  give  you  a  good  rub." 

He  led  Mr.  Braddy  to  the  door  of  the  steam  room, 
full  of  dense,  white  steam. 

"Hey,  Gawge,"  he  shouted. 


The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Petti pon 

"Hello,  Al,  wotj  a  want  ?"  came  a  voice  faintly  from 
the  room  beyond  the  steam  room. 

"Oh,  Gawge,  catch  thoity-six  ;when  he  comes 
through,"  shouted  Al. 

He  gave  Mr.  Braddy  a  little  push  and  closed  the  door. 
Mr.  Braddy  found  himself  surrounded  by  steam  which 
seemed  to  be  boiling  and  scalding  his  very  soul.  He 
attempted  to  cry  "Help,"  and  got  a  mouthful  of  rich 
steam  that  made  him  splutter.  He  started  to  make  a 
dash  in  the  direction  of  Gawge's  door,  and  ran  full  tilt 
into  another  mountain  of  avoirdupois,  which  cried  in- 
dignantly, "Hey,  watch  where  you're  going,  will  you? 
You  ain't  back  at  dear  old  Yale,  playing  football." 
Mr.  Braddy  had  a  touch  of  panic.  This  was  serious. 
To  be  lost  in  a  labyrinth  of  dressing  rooms  was  dis- 
tressing enough,  but  here  he  was  slowly  but  certainly 
being  steamed  to  death,  with  Gawge  and  safety  waiting 
for  him  but  a  few  feet  away.  An  idea!  Firemen, 
trapped  in  burning  buildings,  he  had  read  in  the  news- 
papers, always  crawl  on  their  hands  and  knees,  because 
the  lower  air  is  purer.  Laboriously  he  lowered  himself 
to  his  hands  and  knees,  and,  like  a  flabby  pink  bear, 
with  all  sense  of  direction  gone,  he  started  through  the 
steam. 

"Hey!" 

"Lay  off  me,  guy!" 

"Ouch,  me  ankle !" 

"Wot's  the  big  idea  ?    This  ain't  no  circus." 

"Leggo  me  shin," 

"Ouf!" 

The  "ouf"  came  from  Mr.  Braddy,  who  had  been 
soundly  kicked  in  the  mid-riff  by  an  angry  dweller  in  the 
steam  room,  whose  ankle  he  had  grabbed  as  he  careered 


Mr.  Braddys  Bottle  179 

madly  but  futilely  around  the  room.  Then,  success! 
The  door !  He  opened  it. 

"Where's  Gawge?"  he  demanded  faintly. 

"Well,  I'll  be  damned!    It's  thoity-six  back  again!" 

It  was  Al's  voice ;  not  Gawge.  Mr.  Braddy  had  come 
back  to  the  same  door  he  started  from ! 

He  was  unceremoniously  thrust  by  Al  back  into  the 
steaming  hell  from  which  he  had  just  escaped,  and  once 
more  Al  shouted  across,  "Hey,  Gawge,  catch  thoity-six 
when  he  comes  through." 

Mr.  Braddy,  on  his  hands  and  knees,  steered  as 
straight  a  course  as  he  could  for  the  door  that  opened 
to  Gawge  and  fresh  air,  but  the  bewildering  steam  once 
again  closed  round  him,  and  he  butted  the  tumid-calves 
of  one  of  the  Moes  and  was  roundly  cursed.  Veering 
to  the  left,  he  bumped  into  the  legs  of  another  Moe  so 
hard  that  this  Moe  went  down  as  if  he  had  been  sub- 
marined, a  tangle  of  plump  legs,  arms,  and  profanity. 
Mr.  Braddy,  in  the  confusion,  reached  the  door  and 
pushed  it  open. 

"Holy  jumpin'  mackerel!  Thoity-six  again!  Say, 
you  ain't  supposed  to  come  back  here.  You're  supposed 
to  keep  going  straight  across  the  steam  room  to  Gawge." 
It  was  Al,  enraged. 

Once  more  Mr.  Braddy  was  launched  into  the  steam 
room.  How  many  times  he  tried  to  traverse  it — bear 
fashion — he  never  could  remember,  but  it  must  have 
been  at  least  six  times  that  he  reappeared  at  the  long- 
suffering  Al's  door,  and  was  returned,  too  steamed, 
now,  to  protest.  Mr.  Braddy's  new-found  persistence 
was  not  to  be  denied,  however,  and  ultimately  he 
reached  the  right  door,  to  find  waiting  for  him  a  large, 
genial  soul  who  was  none  other  than  Gawge,  and  who 


180    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Petti pon 

asked,  with  untimely  facetiousness,  Mr.  Braddy 
thought : 

"Didja  enjoy  the  trip?" 

Gawge  placed  Mr.  Braddy  on  a  marble  slab  and 
scrubbed  him  with  a  large  and  very  rough  brush,  which 
made  Mr.  Braddy  scream  with  laughter,  particularly 
when  the  rough  bristles  titillated  the  soles  of  his  feet. 

"Wot's  the  joke  ?"  inquired  Gawge. 

<r5Tou  ticker  me,"  gasped  Mr.  Braddy. 

He  was  rather  enjoying  himself  now.  It  made  him 
feel  important  to  have  so  much  attention.  But  he 
groaned  and  gurgled  a  little  when  Gawge  attacked  him 
with  cupped  hands  and  beat  a  tattoo  up  and  down  his 
spine  and  all  over  his  palpitating  body.  Wop,  wop, 
wop,  wop,  wop,  wop,  wop,  wop  wop  went  Gawge's 
hands. 

Then  he  rolled  Mr.  Braddy  from  the  slab,  like  jelly 
from  a  mold.  Mr.  Braddy  jelled  properly  and  was 
stood  in  a  corner. 

"All  over?"  he  asked.  Zizzzzzz!  A  stream  of  icy 
water  struck  him  between  his  shoulder  blades. 

"Ow,  ow,  ow,  ow,  ow,  ow!"  he  cried.  The  stream, 
as  if  in  response  to  his  outcries,  immediately  became 
boiling  hot.  First  one,  then  the  other  played  on  him. 
Then  they  stopped.  An  attendant  appeared  and  dried 
Mr.  Braddy  vigorously  with  a  great,  shaggy  towel,  and 
then  led  him  to  a  dormitory,  where,  on  white  cots,  rows 
of  Moes  puffed  and  wheezed  and  snored  and  dreamed, 
dreams  of  great  profits. 

Mr.  Braddy  tumbled  happily  into  his  cot,  boiled  but 
triumphant.  He  had  taken  a  Turkish  bath!  The 
world  was  at  his  feet!  He  had  made  a  decision !  He 
had  acted  on  it !  He  had  met  the  demon  Timidity  in 
fair  fight  and  downed  him.  He  had  been  drunk,  in- 


Mr.  Braddy's  Bottle  181 

dubitably  drunk,  for  the  first  and  last  time.  He  assured 
himself  that  he  never  wanted  to  taste  the  stuff  again. 
But  he  couldn't  help  but  feel  that  his  one  jamboree  had 
made  a  new  man  of  him,  opening  new  lands  of  adven- 
ture, showing  him  that  "he  could  if  he  would."  As  he 
buried  his  head  in  the  pillow,  he  rehearsed  the  speech 
he  would  make  to  Mr.  Berger,  the  manager,  in  the  morn- 
ing. Should  he  begin,  "Mr.  Berger,  if  you  think  I'm 
worth  it,  will  you  please  raise  my  pay  five  dollars  a 
week?"  No,  by  Heaven,  a  thousand  noes!  He  was 
worth  it,  and  he  would  say  so.  Should  he  begin,  "See 
here,  Mr.  Berger,  the  time  has  come  for  you  to  raise 
my  salary  ten  dollars  ?"  No,  he'd  better  ask  for  twenty 
dollars  while  he  was  about  it,  and  compromise  on  ten 
dollars  as  a  favor  to  his  employers.  But  then,  again, 
why  stop  at  twenty  dollars  ?  His  sales  in  the  rugs  war- 
ranted much  more.  "I  can  have  thirty  dollars,  and  I 
will,"  he  said  a  number  of  times  to  the  pillow.  Care- 
fully he  rehearsed  his  speech:  "Now,  see  here,  Ber- 
ger  "  and  then  he  was  whirled  away  into  a  dream 

in  which  he  saw  a  great  hand  take  down  the  big  sign 
from  the  front  of  the  Great  Store,  and  put  up  in  its 
place  a  still  larger  sign,  reading: 

BRADDY'S  GKEATEE  STORE 

Dry  Goods  and  Turkish  Baths 
Hugh  Braddy,  Sole  Prop. 

§4 

He  woke  feeling  very  strange,  and  not  exactly  as 
fresh  as  a  daisy.  He  felt  much  more  like  a  cauli- 
flower cooled  after  boiling.  His  head  buzzed  a  bit,  with 
a  sort  of  gay  giddiness,  but  for  all  that  he  knew  that 


182    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

he  was  not  the  same  Hugh.  Braddy  that  had  been  cata- 
pulted from  bed  by  an  alarm  clock  in  his  Long  Island 
City  home  the  morning  before. 

"A  man  can  do  what  he's  a  mind  to,"  he  said  to  him- 
self in  a  slightly  husky  voice.  His  first  move  was  to 
get  breakfast.  The  old  Hugh  Braddy  would  have  gone 
humbly  to  a  one-armed  beanery  for  one  black  coffee 
and  one  doughnut — price,  one  dime.  The  new  Hugh 
Braddy  considered  this  breakfast,  and  dismissed  it  as 
beneath  a  man  of  his  importance.  Instead,  he  went  to 
the  Mortimore  Grill  and  had  a  substantial  club  break- 
fast. He  called  up  Angelica,  his  wife,  and  cut  short 
her  lecture  with — "Unavoidable,  m'dear.  Inventory  at 
the  store."  His  tone,  somehow,  made  her  hesitate  to 
question  him  further.  "It'll  be-  all  right  about  that 
raise,"  he  added  grandly.  "Have  a  good  supper  to- 
night. G'by." 

He  bought  himself  an  eleven-cent  cigar,  instead  of 
his  accustomed  six-center,  and,  puffing  it  in  calm  de- 
fiance of  a  store  rule,  strode  into  the  employees'  en- 
trance of  the  Great  Store  a  little  after  nine.  Without 
wavering,  he  marched  straight  to  the  office  of  Mr.  Ber- 
ger,  who  looked  up  from  his  morning  mail  in  surprise. 

"Well,  Mr.  Braddy?" 

Mr.  Braddy  blew  a  smoke  ring,  playfully  stuck  his 
finger  through  it,  and  said : 

"Mr.  Berger,  I'm  thinking  of  going  with  another 
concern.  A  fellow  was  in  to  see  me  the  other  day, 
and  he  says  to  me,  'Braddy,  you  are  the  best  rug  man 
in  this  town.'  And  he  hinted  that  if  I'd  come  over  with 
his  concern  they'd  double  my  salary.  ISTow,  I've  been 
with  the  Great  Store  more  than  twenty  years,  and  I  like 
the  place,  Mr.  Berger,  and  I  know  the  ropes,  so  natu- 
rally I  don't  want  to  change.  But,  of  course,  I  must 


Mr.  Braddy  s  Bottle  183 

go  where  the  most  money  is.  I  owe  that  to  Mrs.  B. 
But  I'm  going  to  do  the  square  thing.  I'm  going  to 
give  you  a  chance  to  meet  the  ante.  Sixty's  the  figure." 

He  waved  his  cigar,  signifying  the  utter  inconse- 
quence of  whether  Mr.  Berger  met  the  ante  or  not.  Be- 
fore the  amazed  manager  could  frame  a  reply,  Mr. 
Braddy  continued: 

"You  needn't  make  up  your  mind  right  away,  Mr. 
Berger.  I  don't  have  to  give  my  final  decision  until 
to-night.  You  can  think  it  over.  I  suggest  you  look 
up  my  sales  record  for  last  year  before  you  reach  any 
decision."  And  he  was  gone. 

All  that  day  Mr.  Braddy  did  his  best  not  to  think  of 
what  he  had  done.  Even  the  new  Mr.  Braddy — 
philosophy  and  all — could  not  entirely  banish  the  vision 
of  Angelica  if  he  had  to  break  the  news  that  he  had 
issued  an  ultimatum  for  twice  his  salary  and  had  been 
escorted  to  the  exit. 

He  threw  himself  into  the  work  of  selling  rugs  so 
vigorously  that  his  fellow  salesmen  whispered  to  each 
other,  "What  ails  the  Ole  Hippopotamus?"  He  even 
got  rid  of  a  rug  that  had  been  in  the  department  for 
uncounted  years — showing  a  dark-red  lion  browsing  on 
a  field  of  rich  pink  roses — by  pointing  out  to  the  woman 
who  bought  it  that  it  would  amuse  the  children. 

At  four  o'clock  a  flip  office  boy  tapped  him  on  the 
shoulder  and  said,  "Mr.  Boiger  wants  to  see  you." 
Mr.  Braddy,  whose  head  felt  as  if  a  hive  of  bees 
were  establishing  a  home  there,  but  whose  philosophy 
still  burned  clear  and  bright,  let  Mr.  Berger  wait  a  full 
ten  minutes,  and  then,  with  dignified  tread  that  gave 
no  hint  of  his  inward  qualms,  entered  the  office  of  the 
manager. 


184    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Petti pon 

It  seemed  an  age  before  Mr.  Berger  spoke. 

"Pve  been  giving  your  proposition  careful  considera- 
tion, Mr.  Braddy,"  lie  said.  "I  have  decided  that  we'd 
like  to  keep  you  in  the  rugs.  We'll  meet  thai  ante." 


IX:  Gretna  Greenhorns 


IX:  Gretna  Greenhorns 

§1 

FfJRE  brown  eyes  of  Chester  Arthur  Jessup,  Jr., 
m  were  fixed  on  the  maroon  banner  of  the  Clin- 
tonia  High  School  which  adorned  his  bedroom 
wall,  but  they  did  not  see  that  vivid  emblem  of  the 
institution  in  whose  academic  halls  he  was  a  senior. 
Kather,  they  appeared  to  look  through  it,  beyond  it, 
into  some  far-away  land.  Bright  but  unseeing,  they 
proclaimed  that  their  owner  was  in  that  state  of  mild 
hypnosis  known  as  "turkey-dreaming."  His  lips  were 
parted  in  a  slight  smile,  and  the  shoe  which  he  had  been 
in  the  act  of  removing  as  he  sat  on  his  bed  was  poised 
in  mid-air  above  the  floor,  for  reverie  had  overcome 
him  in  the  very  midst  of  preparations  for  an  evening 
call. 

The  object  of  his  pensive  musings  was  at  that  mo- 
ment eating  her  evening  meal  some  blocks  away  in  the 
home  of  her  parents.  Fondly,  with  that  inward  eye 
which  is  alleged  to  be  the  bliss  of  solitude,  Chester 
followed  the  process.  It  had  only  been  lately  that  he 
could  bring  himself  to  admit  that  she  ate  at  all.  She 
was  so  dainty,  so  ethereal.  And  yet  reason,  and  the 
course  he  was  taking  in  physiology,  told  him  that  she, 
even  she,  must  sometimes  give  way  to  the  unworthy 
promptings  of  necessity,  and  eat.  But  that  she  should 
eat  as  ordinary  mortals  do,  was  unthinkable.  It  waa 

187 


l88    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

not  the  first  time  that  Chester,  in  reverie,  had  permitted 
her  a  slight  refection.  The  menu  of  her  meals  never 
varied.  To-night,  as  on  other  occasions,  it  consisted 
of  watercress  salad,  a  mere  nibble  of  it;  a  delicate  dab 
of  ice-cream,  no  bigger  than  a  thimble;  a  small  cup 
of  tea,  and,  perhaps,  a  lady-finger.  The  lady-finger 
was  a  concession.  On  the  occasion  of  his  last  call, 
Mildred  had  confessed  that  she  could  die  eating  lady- 
fingers.  Of  course,  later  in  the  evening  she  might  have 
a  candy  or  two,  but  then,  candy  can  hardly  be  consid- 
ered food. 

A  mundane  clatter  of  dishes  in  the  kitchen  below 
caused  Chester  to  start  from  his  dream,  and  drop  the 
shoe.  He  leaped  up  and  began  to  make  elaborate  and 
excited  preparations  for  dressing. 

From  an  ancient,  battered  chest  of  drawers  he  care- 
fully took  a  tissue-paper  package  containing  a  Union 
Forever  Suit,  whose  label  proclaimed  that  "From  Fac- 
tory to  You,  No  Human  Hand  Touches  It."  With 
brow  puckered  in  abstract  thought,  Chester  broke  the 
seal  and  laid  the  crisp,  immaculate  garment  on  the  bed. 
With  intense  seriousness,  he  regarded  it  for  a  moment ; 
apparently  it  passed  his  searching  examination,  for  he 
turned  again  to  the  chest  of  drawers  and  drew  forth  a 
smaller  package,  from  which  he  extracted  new  socks  of 
lustrous  blue.  These  he  placed  on  the  bed.  From  be- 
neath the  bed  he  drew  a  pair  of  low  shoes,  which 
gleamed  in  the  gaslight  from  arduous  polishing.  On. 
their  toes,  fanciful  artisans  had  pricked  curves  and 
loops  and  butterfly  designs.  Chester  gave  them  a  few 
final  rubs  with  the  shirt  he  had  just  discarded  and 
placed  them  on  the  bed.  At  this  point  there  was  a 
hiatus  in  the  wardrobe.  He  went  out  into  the  hall  and 
shouted  down  the  back  stairs. 


Gretna  Greenhorns  189 

"Oh,  Ma.    Oh,  Ma!" 

"Well?"  came  his  mother's  voice  from  the  regions 
below. 

"Are  my  trousers  pressed  yet  ?" 

"My  goodness,  Chester,"  she  called,  "I  haven't  had 
time  yet.  It's  only  a  little  after  six.  Do  come  down 
and  eat  some  supper." 

"But  I  don't  want  any  supper,"  protested  Chester. 

"There's  apple  pudding  with  cream,"  she  announced. 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Chester,  reluctantly,  "I  suppose  I'd 
better.  Can  I  have  a  dish  of  it  on  the  back  stairs? 
I'm  not  dressed." 

"Yes.  But  you  have  plenty  of  time.  You  know 
you  shouldn't  make  an  evening  call  before  eight-fifteen 
at  the  very  earliest,"  said  Mrs.  Jessup. 

After  he  had  disposed  of  two  helpings  of  apple  pud- 
ding, Chester  returned  to  his  room  and  spent  some 
moments  analyzing  the  comparative  merits  of  a  dozen 
neckties  hanging  in  an  imitation  brass  stirrup.  He 
had  eliminated  all  but  two,  a  black  one  and  a  red  one, 
when  his  mother's  voice  floated  up  the  back  stairs. 

"For  goodness'  sake,  Chester,  do  be  careful  of  that 
bathtub.  It's  running  over  again.  How  many  times  do 
1  have  to  tell  you  to  watch  it  ?" 

Chester  bounded  to  the  bathroom  and  shut  off  the 
water.  It  had,  indeed,  started  to  overflow  the  tub,  and 
Chester,  accepting  the  Archimedian  principle  without 
ever  having  heard  of  it,  perceived  that  he  must  let  some 
of  the  water  out  before  he  could  put  himself  in.  Ac- 
cordingly he  pulled  out  the  plug  and  returned  to  his  own 
room  to  wait  for  a  little  of  the  water  to  run  off. 

He  made  the  most  of  this  idle  moment.  Throwing 
off  his  multi-hued  Navajo  bathrobe,  he  surveyed  the 


190    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

reflection  of  his  torso  in  the  mirror.  He  contracted  his 
biceps  and  eyed  the  resulting  egg-like  bulges  with  some 
satisfaction.  Suddenly,  his  ordinarily  amiable  face 
took  on  a  fierce,  dark  scowl.  He  crouched  until  he  was 
bent  almost  double.  He  lowered  at  the  mirror.  Hia 
left  fist  was  extended  and  his  right  drawn  back  in  the 
most  approved  scientific  style  of  the  prize-ring. 

"You  will,  will  you?"  came  from  between  his 
clenched  teeth,  and  his  left  fist  darted  out  rapidly, 
three,  four,  five  times,  and  then  he  shot  out  his  right 
fist  with  such  violence  that  he  all  but  shattered  the 
mirror. 

This  last  blow  seemed  to  have  a  cataclysmic  effect  on 
Chester's  opponent,  for  the  victorious  Chester  backed 
off  and  waited,  still  crouching  and  lowering,  for  his 
victim  to  rise. 

The  opponent  apparently  was  a  tough  one,  and  not 
the  man  to  succumb  easily.  Chester  waited  for  him  to 
regain  his  feet  and  then  they  were  at  it  again.  Chester 
let  loose  a  shower  of  savage  uppercuts.  From  the  way 
he  leaped  six  inches  into  the  air  to  deliver  his  blows  it 
was  evident  that  his  opponent  was  considerably  bigger 
than  he.  At  length,  when  all  but  breathless  from  his 
exertions,  Chester  with  one  prodigious  punch,  a  coup 
de  grace  that  there  was  no  withstanding,  knocked  all  the 
fight  out  of  his  foe.  But,  seemingly,  he  was  not  satisfied 
with  flooring  his  giant  opponent;  with  stern,  set  face, 
Chester  walked  to  the  corner  where  the  fellow  was 
sprawling,  seized  him  by  his  collar,  and  dragged  him 
across  the  room.  Then,  shaking  him  fiercely,  Chester 
hissed : 

"Now,  you  cad,  apologize  to  this  lady  for  daring  to 
offer  her  an  affront  by  passing  remarks  about  her." 

The  apology  would,  no  doubt,  have  been  forthcoming 


Gretna  Greenhorns  191 

had  not  Chester  at  that  moment  heard  an  unmistakable 
sound  from  the  bathroom.  He  abandoned  his  prostrate 
foe  and  rushed  in  just  in  time  to  see  the  last  of  his 
bath-water  go  gargling  and  gurgling  out  of  the  tub. 

Chester  sat  moodily  on  the  edge  of  the  tub  until 
enough  hot  water  had  bubbled  into  it  for  him  to  per- 
form ablutions  of  appalling  thoroughness.  He  was  red 
almost  to  rawness  from  his  efforts  with  the  bath  brush, 
and  was  redolent  of  scented  soap  and  talcum  powder 
when  he  again  returned  to  his  bedroom. 

He  dressed  with  a  sort  of  feverish  calmness,  now  and 
again  pausing  to  sigh  gently  and  gaze  for  a  moment 
into  nothingness.  By  now  she  had  finished  her  lady- 
finger — 

His  mother  had  laid  his  freshly  pressed  trousers 
on  the  bed,  and  he  ran  an  appreciative  eye  along  their 
razor-blade  crease.  From  the  chest  of  drawers  he* 
brought  forth  a  snowy  shirt,  which,  from  the  piece  of 
cardboard  shoved  down  its  throat  and  the  numerous 
pins  which  Chester  extracted  impatiently,  one  could 
surmise  was  fresh  from  the  laundry.  When  he  came  to 
the  collar-and-tie  stage,  he  was  halted  for  a  time.  Three 
collars  of  various  shapes  were  tried  and  deemed  un- 
worthy, and  then,  at  the  last  minute,  yielding  to  a 
sudden  wild  impulse,  he  discarded  the  black  tie  in  favor 
of  the  red  one.  He  slipped  on  a  blue  serge  coat,  the  cut 
of  which  endeavored  to  promote  his  waist-line  to  his 
shoulder  blades,  and  was  all  dressed  but  for  the  crown- 
ing task — to  comb  his  hair. 

By  dint  of  many  dismal  experiences,  Chester  knew 
that  this  would  be  trying,  for  his  hair  was  abundant 
but  untamed.  He  tried  first  to  induce  it  to  part  while 
it  was  still  dry,  but  the  results  of  this  operation,  as  he 
had  feared,  were  negligible.  He  then  attempted  to 


192    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

achieve  a  part  with  his  hair  slightly  moistened  with 
witch  hazel.  For  fully  five  seconds  it  looked  like  a 
success,  but  as  Chester  started  to  leave,  one  parting 
look  told  him  that  little  spikes  and  wisps  were  rearing 
rebellious  heads  and  quite  ruining  the  perfection  of  his 
handiwork.  With  a  sigh  he  fell  back  upon  his  last  re- 
sort, the  liberal  application  of  a  sticky,  jelly-like  sub- 
stance derived  from  petroleum,  which  imparted  to  his 
brown  hair  an  unwonted  shine.  But  the  part  held  as 
if  it  had  been  carved  in  marble.  Arranging  his  white 
silk  handkerchief  so  that  it  protruded  a  modish  eighth 
of  an  inch  from  his  breast  pocket,  Chester  Arthur 
Jessupi,  Jr.,  sallied  forth  to  make  his  call. 

On  the  front  porch  was  his  family,  and  Chester  would 
have  avoided  their  critical  eyes  if  he  could.  However, 
the  gantlet  had  to  be  run,  so  he  emerged  into  the  family 
group  with  a  saunter  that  he  hoped  might  be  described 
as  "nonchalant."  In  the  privacy  of  his  room  he  often 
practiced  that  saunter;  he  had  seen  in  the  papers  that 
a  certain  celebrated  criminal  had  "sauntered  noncha- 
lantly into  the  court-room,"  and  the  phrase  had  fasci- 
nated him. 

"What  in  the  name  of  thunder  have  you  been  doing 
to  your  hair?"  demanded  his  father,  looking  up  from 
his  pipe  and  paper. 

"Combing  it,"  replied  Chester,  coldly. 

''With  axle  grease  ?"  inquired  Jessup  senior,  genially. 

"And  it  does  look  so  nice  when  it's  dry  and  wavy," 
put  in  his  mother. 

Chester  emitted  a  faint  groan. 

"Oh,  Ma,  you  never  seem  to  realize  that  I'm  grown 
up,"  he  protested.  "Wavy  hair !"  He  groaned  again. 

"Well,"  remarked  the  father,  "I  suppose  it's  better 
that  way  than  not  combed  at  all.  Seems  to  me  that  last 


Gretna  Greenhorns  193 

Slimmer  you  didn't  care  much  whether  it  was  combed, 
or  cut  either,  for  that  matter." 

"A  woman  has  come  into  his  life,"  explained  his 
twenty-two  year-old  sister,  from  hehind  her  novel. 

"You  just  be  careful  who  you  go  callin'  a  woman," 
exclaimed  Chester,  turning  on  her,  with  some  warmth. 

"Don't  you  consider  Mildred  Wrigley  &  woman?" 
asked  Hilda,  mildly. 

"ISTot  in  the  sense  you  mean  it." 

"By  the  way,"  said  Hilda,  "I  saw  her  last  night." 

Chester's  manner  instantly  became  eager  and  con- 
ciliatory. "Did  you?  Where?" 

"At  the  Mill  Street  Baptist  Church  supper,"  said 
Hilda. 

"At  the  supper?"  Chester's  tone  suggested  incre- 
dulity. 

"Yes.  And  goodness  me,  I  never  saw  a  girl  eat  so 
much  in  my  life.  She " 

"Hilda  Jessup,  how  dare  you!" 

Chester's  voice  cracked  with  the  emotion  he  felt  at 
so  damnable  an  imputation. 

"There,  there,  Hilda,  stop  your  teasing,"  said  Mrs. 
Jessup.  "What  if  she  did?  A  big,  healthy  girl  like 
that " 

"Mother "     Chester's  tone  was  anguished. 

"Come,  ISTell,"  said  Mr.  Jessup,  "leave  him  to  his 
illusions.  It's  a  bad  day  for  romance  when  a  man  dis- 
covers that  his  goddess  likes  a  second  helping  of  corned 
beef." 

"Father,  how  can  you  say  such  things!  I  will  not 
stay  here  and  listen  to  you  say  such  things  about  one 
who  I " 

"One  whom,"  interrupted  Hilda. 

Chester  flounced  down  the  front  steps  and  slammed 


194    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

the  gate  after  him,  in  a  manner  that  could  not  possibly 
be  described  as  "nonchalant." 


§2 

The  Wrigley  home  was  four  blocks  away,  and  Ches- 
ter, once  out  of  sight  of  his  own  home,  became  medita- 
tive. He  stopped,  and  after  looking  about  to  see  that 
he  was  not  observed,  drew  from  his  inside  pocket  an 
envelope,  and  for  the  twelfth  time  that  day  counted  its 
contents.  Ninety-four  dollars!  The  savings  of  a  life- 
time !  It  had  originally  been  saved  for  the  purchase  of 
a  motor-cycle,  but  that  was  before  Mildred  Wrigley  had 
smiled  at  him  one  day  across  the  senior  study-hall. 
That  seemed  but  yesterday,  and  yet  it  must  have  been 
fully  seven  weeks  before!  He  replaced  the  money 
and  continued  on  his  way. 

Chester  paused  at  the  Greek  Candy  Kitchen  on  Main 
Street  to  buy  a  box  of  candy,  richly  bedight  with  purple 
silk,  and  by  carefully  gaging  his  saunter,  contrived  to 
arrive  at  the  Wrigley  residence  at  fourteen  minutes 
after  eight.  He  gave  his  tie  a  final  adjustment,  his 
hair  a  last  frantic  smoothing,  licked  his  dry  lips — and 
rang  the  bell. 

"Oh,  good  evening,  Chester." 

Mildred  Wrigley  had  a  small,  birdlike  voice.  She 
was  looking  not  so  much  at  Chester  as  at  the  beribboned 
purple  box  he  held.  They  went  into  the  parlor. 

"Oh,  Chester,"  cried  Mildred,  as  she  opened  the  pur- 
ple box,  "how  sweet  of  you  to  bring  me  such  heavenly 
candy.  I  just  adore  cholocate-covered  cherries.  I  could 
just  DIE  eating  them." 

She  popped  two  of  them  into  her  mouth,  and  sighed 
ecstatically.  They  discussed,  with  great  thoroughness, 


Gretna  Greenhorns  195 

the  weather  of  the  day,  the  weather  of  the  day  before 
and  the  probable  weather  of  the  near  future.  Then 
Mildred  moved  her  chair  a  quarter  of  an  inch  nearer 
Chester's. 

"There,  now,"  she  said,  with  her  dimpling  smile, 
"let's  be  real  comfy."  A  glow  enveloped  Chester. 

"I  had  the  most  heavenly  supper  to-night,"  confided 
Mildred. 

"I  hardly  ate  at  all,"  said  Chester. 

"Oh,  you  poor,  poor  boy,"  said  Mildred.  "Do  pass 
me  another  candy." 

They  discussed  school  affairs,  and  the  approaching 
examinations. 

"I'm  so  worried,"  confessed  Mildred.  "Horrid  old 
geometry.  Stupid  physics.  What  do  I  care  why  apples 
fall  off  trees?  I'm  going  to  go  on  the  stage.  That 
miserable  old  wretch,  Miss  Shufelt,  has  been  writing 
nasty  notes  to  Dad,  saying  I  don't  study  enough." 

Her  lip  trembled;  she  looked  so  small,  so  weak. 
"Look  here,"  said  Chester,  hoarsely,  "we've  known 
each  other  for  a  long  time  now,  haven't  we  ?" 

"Yes,  ever  so  long,"  said  Mildred,  taking  another 
chocolate-covered  cherry.  "Months  and  months." 

"Do  you  think  one  person  ought  to  be  frank  with 
another  person?" 

"Of  course  I  do,  Chester,  if  they  know  each  other 
well  enough." 

"I  mean  very  frank." 

"Well,"  said  Mildred,  "if  they  know  each  other  very, 
very  well,  I  think  they  ought  to  be  very  frank." 

"How  long  do  you  think  one  person  ought  to  know 
another  person  before  he,  or  for  that  matter  she,  ought 
to  be  very  frank  with  that  person." 

"Oh,  months  and  months,"  answered  Mildred. 


196    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

Chester  passed  his  white  silk  handkerchief  over  his 
damp  brow. 

"When  I  say  very  frank,  I  mean  very  frank,"  he  said. 

"That's  what  I  mean,  too."  She  took  another  choco- 
late-covered cherry. 

Chester  went  on,  speaking  rapidly. 

"For  example,  if  one  person  should  tell  another  per- 
son that  he  liked  that  person  and  he  didn't  really  mean 
like  at  all  but  another  word  like  like,  only  meaning 
something  much  more  than  like — don't  you  think  he 
ought  to  tell  that  person  what  he  really  meant?  I 
mean,  of  course,  providing  that  he  had  known  that  per- 
son months  and  months  and  knew  her  very  well 
and " 

"I  guess  he  should,"  she  said,  taking  a  sudden  keen 
interest  in  the  toe  of  her  slipper.  Chester  plunged  on. 

"But  supipose  you  were  the  person  that  another  per- 
son had  said  they  liked,  only  they  really  didn't  mean 
like  but  another  word  that  begins  with  '!,'  do  you  think 
that  person  ought  to  be  very  frank  and  tell  you  that 
the  way  he  regarded  you  did  not  begin  'li'  but  be- 
gan %'?" 

"I  guess  so,"  she  said,  without  abandoning  the  minute 
scrutiny  of  her  toe. 

"Well,"  said  Chester,  "that's  how  I  regard  you,  not 
with  an  <li'  but  with  an  %.' " 

Mildred  did  not  look  up. 

"Oh,  Chester,"  she  murmured.  He  hitched  his  chair 
an  inch  nearer  hers,  and  with  a  quick,  uncertain  move- 
ment, took  hold  of  her  hand.  A  loud  slam  of  the  front 
door  caused  them  both  to  start. 

"It's  Dad,"  whispered  Mildred.  "And  he's  mad 
about  something." 

Her  father,  large  and  red-faced,  entered  the  room. 


Gretna  Greenhorns  197 

"Good  evening,"  he  said,  nodding  briefly  at  Chester. 
"Mildred,  come  into  my  study  a  minute,  will  you. 
There's  something  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about." 

The  folding  doors  closed  on  father  and  daughter,  and 
Chester  was  left  balancing  himself  on  the  edge  of  a 
chair. 

Mildred's  father  had  a  rumbling  voice  that  now  and 
then  penetrated  the  folding  doors  and  Chester  caught 
the  words  "whippersnapper"  and  "callow."  He  heard, 
too,  Mildred's  small,  high  voice,  protesting.  She  was 
in  tears. 

Presently  Mildred  reappeared,  lacrimose.  "Oh,  that 
nasty,  horrid  Miss  Shufelt,"  she  burst  out. 

"What  has  she  done?"  asked  Chester. 

"The  nasty  old  cat  asked  Dad  to  stop  in  to  see  her 
to-night  on  his  way  home  from  the  office,  and  she  told 
him  the  awfulest  things  about  me." 

"She  did?"  Chester's  voice  was  rich  with  loathing. 
"I  just  wish  I  had  her  here,  that's  all  I  wish,"  he 
added  fiercely. 

"She  said,"  went  on  Mildred,  with  fresh  sobs, 
"she  said — I — was — boy — c-c-crazy.  And — I — never 
— studied — and " 

"Darn  that  woman !"  cried  Chester. 

"And  Dad's — going — to — send — me — to — S-Simp- 
son  Hall!" 

The  idea  stunned  Chester. 

"Simpson  Hall?  Why,  that's  a  boarding  school  in 
Massachusetts,  miles  and  miles  from  here,"  he  gasped. 

"I  know  it,"  said  Mildred.  "I  know  a  girl  who 
went  there.  It's  a  nasty,  horrid  place."  A  fresh  attack 
of  sobs  seized  her. 

"They'll — make — me — do — c-calesthenics,  and — they 


198    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

— won't — give — m  e — a  n  y  t  h  i  n  g — t  o — eat — but — b- 
beans." 

Nothing  but  beans !  Mildred  eat  beans !  It  was  an 
outrage,  a  sacrilege. 

"He's  already  written  to  Simpson  Hall,"  wailed  Mil- 
dred. "And  I  have  to  go,  Monday." 

"Monday  ?  Not  Monday  ?  Why,  to-day's  Friday !" 
Chester's  face  became  resolute;  he  felt  in  his  inside 
pocket  where  his  envelope  was. 

"You  sha'nt  go,"  he  declared.  "You  and  I  will  elope 
to-morrow  morning." 

§3 

Chester  met  Mildred  aboard  the  8 :48  train  for  New 
York  City  the  next  morning. 

Mildred,  clasping  a  small  straw  suit-case,  had  mis- 
givings. But  Chester  reassured  her. 

"Don't  worry,  Mildred,  please  don't  worry,"  he 
pleaded.  "My  cousin,  Phil  Snyder,  who  is  at  Princeton 
and  knows  all  about  such  things,  says  it's  a  cinch  to 
get  married  in  New  York.  All  you  do  is  walk  up  to 
a  window,  pay  a  dollar,  and  you're  married.  And  if 
we  can't  get  married  there,  we  can  go  to  Hoboken. 
Anybody,  anybody  at  all,  can  get  married  in  Hoboken, 
Phil  told  me  so." 

She  smiled  at  him. 

"Our  wedding  day,"  she  said,  softly. 

"Why  are  you  so  pensive  ?"  he  asked,  after  a  while. 

"I  haven't  had  my  breakfast,"  she  said.  "I  always 
feel  sort  of  weak  and  funny  till  I've  had  my  breakfast." 

Chester  bought  several  large  slabs  of  nut-studded 
chocolate  from  the  train  boy.  When  they  passed  Har- 
mon, at  Mildred's  suggestion  he  bought  a  package  of 


Gretna  Greenhorns  199 

butter-scotch.  Her  flagging  spirits  were  revived  by 
these  repasts.  "I  could  just  DIE  eating  butter-scotch," 
she  said,  dimpling. 

"We'll  always  keep  some  in  the  house,  little  woman," 
Chester  promised  her,  mentally  adding  butter-scotch  to 
the  menu  of  watercress  salad,  tea,  ice-cream  and  an 
occasional  lady-finger. 

The  human  torrent  in  the  Grand  Central  station 
whirled  the  elopers  with  it  along  the  ramp  and  out 
under  the  zodiac  dome  of  the  great,  busy  hall.  They 
stood  there,  wide-eyed.  "New  York/'  said  Mildred. 

"Our  New  York,"  said  Chester. 

He  steered  a  roundabout  course  for  the  subway,  for 
he  wanted  to  reach  the  Municipal  Building  as  soon  as 
possible.  He  had  fears,  the  worldly  Phil  Snyder  to 
the  contrary  notwithstanding,  that  he  might  encounter 
difficulties  in  getting  a  marriage  license  there.  And  he 
and  Mildred  would  then  have  to  go  to  Hoboken.  He 
had  only  a  sketchy  idea  of  where  Hoboken  was.  And 
it  was  then  nearly  eleven. 

But  Mildred  was  not  to  be  hurried. 

"Couldn't  we  have  just  one  little  fudge  sundae  first  1" 
she  asked.  "I  haven't  had  my  regular  breakfast,  you 
know.  And  I  do  feel  so  sort  of  weak  and  funny  when 
I  haven't  had  my  regular  breakfast." 

To  Schuyler's  they  went,  and  consumed  precious 
minutes  and  two  fudge  sundaes.  On  the  way  out,  Mil- 
dred stopped  short. 

"Oh,  look,"  she  exclaimed,  "real  New  Orleans 
pralines.  I  just  adore  them.  And  you  can't  get  them 
in  Clintonia." 

Chester  looked  at  her  a  little  nervously. 

"It's  getting  sort  of  late,"  he  suggested. 

"All  right,  Mr.  Hurry,"  Mildred  pouted,  "just  you 


20O    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

go  on  to  the  horrid  old  City  Hall  by  your  lonesome. 
I'm  going  to  stop  and  have  a  praline." 

Chester  capitulated,  contritely,  so  Mildred  had  two. 

They  started  for  the  subway  which  was  to  take  them 
far  down-town  to  the  Municipal  Building.  On  Forty- 
second  Street  they  passed  a  shiny,  white  edifice  in  the 
window  of  which  an  artist  in  immaculate  white  duck 
was  deftly  tossing  griddle  cakes  into  the  air  so  that 
they  described  a  graceful  parabola  and  flopped  on  a 
soapstone  griddle  where  they  sizzled  brownly  and 
crisply.  A  faint  but  provoking  aroma  floated  through 
the  open  door.  Mildred's  footsteps  slackened,  then  she 
paused,  then  she  came  to  a  dead  stop. 

"Ummm-mmm !  What  a  heavenly  smell !"  she  said. 
"Don't  you  just  adore  griddle  cakes?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Chester,  a  little  desperately.  "Let's 
have  some  for  lunch.  It's  twenty-five  minutes  to  twelve. 
Let's  hurry." 

"Why,  Chester  Jessup,  you  know  I  haven't  had  my 
regular  breakfast  yet.  I  just  couldn't  go  away  down 
to  that  old  City  Hall  and  get  married  and  everything 
without  having  had  some  nourishment.  It  won't  take 
a  minute  to  have  a  little  breakfast." 

"Oh,  all  right,"  said  Chester. 

The  griddle  cakes  tasted  like  rubber  to  Chester. 
Mildred  ate  hers  with  great  relish  and  insisted  on  hav- 
ing them  decorated  with  country  sausage. 

"It's  so  nourishing,"  she  explained.  "I  could  just 
DIE  eating  sausage." 

Chester  paid  the  check  and  forgot  to  take  the  change 
from  a  two-dollar  bill. 

"I  could  just  die  eating  sausage.  I  could  just  die 
eating  sausage."  The  wheels  of  the  subway  train 
seemed  to  click  to  this  refrain  as  it  sped  down-town. 


Gretna  Greenhorns  201 

It  was  nearly  one  o'clock  when  the  elopers  at  last 
reached  the  Municipal  Building.  They  found  a  sign 
which  read,  "MARRIAGE  LICENSES.  KEEP  TO  THE 
RIGHT." 

With  his  heart  just  under  his  collar  button  and  his 
dollar  grasped  tightly  in  his  hand,  Chester  knocked 
timidly.  The  door  was  opened  by  a  stout  minor  poli- 
tician with  a  cap  on  the  back  of  his  head. 

"I  want  a  marriage  license,  please,"  said  Chester. 
He  dropped  his  voice  a  full  octave  below  his  normal 
speaking-tone. 

The  minor  politician  blinked  at  Chester  and  Mil- 
dred. Then  he  guffawed,  hoarsely. 

"Say,"  he  said,  "in  the  foist  place,  you'll  have  to  get 
a  little  more  age  on  yuh,  and  in  the  second  place,  this 
is  Satiddy  and  this  joint  closes  at  noon.  Come  back 
Thoisday  between  ten  and  four  about  eight  years  from 
now."  He  closed  the  door. 

Chester  turned  miserably  to  Mildred. 

"That  means  Hoboken,"  he  said. 

"I  don't  care,"  she  said,  "as  long  as  I'm  with  you." 

They  went  out  into  the  canyons  of  lower  Manhattan, 
in  search  of  the  way  to  Hoboken.  Their  wanderings 
took  them  past  a  restaurant  whose  windows  were 
adorned  with  vicious-looking,  green,  live  lobsters, 
scrambling  about  pugnaciously  on  cakes  of  ice. 

"Oh,  LOBSTERS,"  cried  Mildred,  her  eye  bright- 
ening. "I've  only  had  lobster  once  in  my  life.  Couldn't 
you  just  DIE  eating  lobstor  ?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Chester,  gloomily. 

"Couldn't  we  stop  in  and  have  a  teeny, weeny  bit  of 
lunch?"  she  asked,  eyeing  the  lobsters  wistfully.  "It 
makes  me  feel  sort  of  queer  to  go  on  long  trips  without 
food." 


202    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

"I'm  not  hungry,"  said  Chester. 

"But  I  am,"  said  Mildred.     They  went  in. 

A  superior  waiter  handed  Mildred  a  large  menu 
card.  "May  I  order  just  anything  I  want  ?"  she  asked 
eagerly. 

"Wouldn't  you  like  some  nice  watercress  salad  and 
some  tea  and  lady-fingers  ?"  Chester  asked,  hopefully. 

"Pooh !  Why,  there's  no  nourishment  in  that  at  all !" 
Mildred  was  studying  the  menu  card.  "I  want  a  great 
big  lobster,  and  some  asparagus.  And  then  I  want  some 
nice  chicken  salad  with  mayonnaise.  And  then  some 
pistache  ice-cream.  And,  oh,  yes,  a  piece  of  huckle- 
berry pie." 

To  Chester  that  lunch  seemed  the  longest  experience 
of  his  life.  It  seemed  to  him  that  no  lobster  ever 
looked  redder,  no  mayonnaise  yellower,  no  pistache  ice- 
cream greener  and  no  huckleberry  pie  purpler.  Mildred 
ate  steadily.  Now  and  then  she  made  little  joyful 
noises  of  approbation. 

When  lunch  was  over  at  last,  they  started  for 
Hoboken. 

"It's  a  nice  pleasant  trip  by  ferry-boat,"  a  policeman 
told  them. 

"I  don't  think  I'd  care  for  a  boat  trip,"  said  Mildred. 

"But  we  have  to  go  to  Hoboken,"  Chester  expostu- 
lated. 

"Couldn't  we  walk  ?"  she  asked. 

"No,  no,  of  course  we  couldn't  It's  across  tie 
river." 

"I  feel  sort  of  queer,  somehow,"  said  Mildred, 
faintly. 

The  North  River  was  choppy  from  darting  tugs  and 
gliding  barges  as  the  ferry-boat  bore  the  elopers  toward 
the  Jersey  side.  Leaning  on  the  rail,  Chester  gazed 


Gretna  Greenhorns  203 

morosely  at  the  retreating  metropolitan  sky-line.  Mil- 
dred plucked  at  his  coat  sleeve.  He  turned  and  looked 
at  her.  Her  face  was  pale.  "Oh,  Chester,  I  want  to 
go  back.  I  want  to  go  home,"  she  said,  tearfully. 

"Why,  Mildred,"  exclaimed  Chester,  and  for  the  first 
time  there  was  impatience  in  his  voice,  "what's  the 
matter?" 

"I'm  going  to  be  sick,"  she  said. 

She  was. 

M 

"I  hate  you,  Chester  Jessup.  I  hate,  hate,  HATE 
you.  And  I'm  going  to  go  back,"  she  said,  tearfully. 

The  elopers  had  never  reached  Hoboken.  Mildred 
refused  to  leave  the  ferry-boat  and  Chester  did  not  urge 
her.  It  bore  them  back  to  the  New  York  side.  Their 
flight  to  Gretna  Green  was  a  failure. 

"You  take  me  right  home,  do  you  hear?"  cried 
Mildred. 

"We  can  get  the  3 :59  from  the  Grand  Central,"  said 
Chester  in  an  icy  voice.  "That  will  get  you  home  in 
time  for  supper." 

"Chester  Jessup,  you're  a  nasty,  heartless  boy  to 
mention  supper  to  me  when  I'm  in  this  condition," 
said  Mildred. 

They  made  the  trip  from  New  York  back  to 
Clintonia  in  silence.  Chester,  watching  the  scenery 
flow  by,  was  thinking  deeply.  He  was  wondering  at 
what  age  young  men  are  admitted  to  monasteries.  He 
left  Mildred  at  her  house. 

"Good  night,  Mr.  Jessup,"  she  said,  coolly. 

"Good  night,  Miss  Wrigley,"  said  Chester,  and 
stalked  home. 


204    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

"Where  have  you  been  all  day?"  demanded  his 
mother. 

"Oh,  just  around,"  said  Chester. 

"Why  weren't  you  home  for  lunch  ?" 

"I  wasn't  hungry,"  said  Chester. 

"And  we  had  the  best  things,  too.  Just  wfiat  yon 
like — chicken  salad  with  mayonnaise,  and  de_ep-disli 
huckleberry  pie." 

Chester  shivered.  "I  don't  think  I'll  take  any  supper 
to-night,"  he  said. 

"Why,  what  aila  you,  anyhow?"  asked  his  mother, 
solicitously.  "We're  going  to  have  such  a  nice  supper. 
Your  father  brought  home  a  couple  of  lobsters.  And 
afterward  we're  going  to  have  pistache  ice-cream,  and 
lady-fingers." 

"Good  Heavens,  Mother,  I  guess  I  know  when  I'm 
not  hungry.  There  are  other  things  in  life  besides 
food,  aren't  there?" 

"Like  being  in  love,  for  example?"  suggested  his 
sister  Hilda. 

"I'm  not  in  love,"  declared  Chester,  vehemently. 

"How  would  you  like  to  have  me  tell  Mildred  Wrig- 
ley  you  said  that  ?"  asked  Hilda. 

"I  just  wish  you  would,"  said  Chester,  "I  just  wish 
you  would." 

"By  the  way,"  remarked  Mr.  Jessup,  "I  met  Tom 
Wrigley  to-day  and  he  said  he  was  sending  that  girl 
of  his  off  to  boarding  school  at  Simpson  Hall." 

"Oh,  is  he?"  said  Mrs.  Jessup.  "Chester,  did  you 
hear  what  your  father  said?" 

"Yes,  I  did,"  said  Chester,  "and  all  I  can  say  is  that 
I  hope  she  gets  enough  to  eat" 


X:    Terrible  Epps 


X:  Terrible  Epps 

§1 

r  t  THE  blue  prints  and  specifications  in  the  case  of 
i       Tidbur j  Epps  follow : 
Age:  the  early  thirties. 

Status:  bachelor. 

Habitat:  Mrs.  Kelty's  Refined  Boarding  House, 
Brooklyn. 

Occupation:  a  lesser  clerk  in  the  wholesale  selling 
department  of  Spingle  &  Blatter,  Nifty  Straw  Hattings. 
See  Advts. 

Appearance :  that  of  a  lesser  clerk.  Weight :  feather. 
Nose:  stub.  Eyes:  apologetic.  Teeth:  obvious.  Fig- 
ure :  brief.  Manner :  diffident.  Nature :  kind.  Dispo- 
sition: amiable  but  subdued. 

Conspicuous  vices:  none. 

Conspicuous  virtues:  none. 

Distinguishing  marks:  none. 

Tidbury  was  no  Napoleon.  He  was  aware  of  this, 
and  so  was  everybody  in  the  hat  company,  including, 
unfortunately,  Titus  Spingle,  the  president,  who  felt 
that  he  knew  a  thing  or  two  about  Bonapartes  because 
he  had  once  been  referred  to  in  a  straw-hat  trade  paper 
as  the  Napoleon  of  Hatdom. 

Mildly,  as  he  did  everything  else  in  life,  Tidbury  ad- 
mired, indeed  almost  envied  Mr.  Spingle's  silk  shirts, 
which  customarily  suggested  an  explosion  in  a  paint 

207 


208    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

factory.  But  such  sartorial  grandeur,  Tidbury  felt, 
was  not  for  him.  He  stuck  to  plain  white  shirts,  dark 
blue  ties  and  pepper-and-salt  suits.  The  pepper-and- 
salt  suit  was  invented  for  Tidbury  Epps. 

Tidbury  worked  diligently  and  even  cheerfully  on  a 
high  stool  and  a  low  salary,  copying  neat  little  black 
figures  into  big  black  books.  The  salary  and  the  stool 
were  the  same  Tidbury  had  been  given  when  he  first 
came  to  New  York  from  Calais,  Maine,  ten  years 
before. 

It  probably  never  entered  his  head,  as  he  bent  over 
his  columns  of  digits  that  crisp  fall  morning,  that  in 
their  sanctum  of  real  mahogany  and  Spanish  leather 
his  employers  were  discussing  him. 

"Whitaker  has  quit,"  announced  Mr.  Blatter,  who 
acted  as  sales  manager. 

Mr.  Spingle's  acre  of  face,  pink  and  dimpled  from 
much  good  living,  showed  concern. 

"How  come  you  can't  keep  an  assistant,  Otto?"  he 
inquired. 

"After  they've  been  with  me  for  six  months,"  ex- 
plained Mr.  Blatter  modestly,  "they  get  so  good  that 
they  simply  have  to  get  better  jobs." 

"Well,  got  any  candidates  for  the  place  ?"  queried  the 
president. 

"Burdette?"  suggested  Mr.  Blatter. 

Mr.  Spingle  eliminated  Burdette  with  a  flick  of  his 
finger. 

"Too  young,"  he  said. 

"Wetsel?" 

"Too  old." 

"Fitch?" 

"Too  careless." 

"Hydeman?" 


Terrible  Epps  209 

"Too  inexperienced." 

"Well,"  ventured  Mr.  Blatter,  "what  about  Tidbury 
Epps?" 

Mr.  Spingle's  shrug  included  his  shoulders,  face  and 
entire  body. 

"He's  neither  too  old,  too  young,  too  careless  nor  too 
inexperienced,"  advanced  Mr.  Blatter. 

"You're  not  serious,  Otto  ?" 

"Sure  I  am.  Epps  has  been  with  us  ten  years  and 
he's  worked  hard.  I  believe  in  giving  our  old  employes 
a  chance." 

"So  do  I,"  rejoined  the  Napoleon  of  Hatdom;  "but 
you  know  perfectly  well,  Otto,  that  Tidbury  Epps  is  a 
dud." 

"He's  as  conscientious  as  a  Pilgrim  father,"  re- 
marked Mr.  Blatter. 

"That's  the  trouble  with  him,"  snorted  Mr.  Spingle. 

"He  spends  so  much  time  being  conscientious  that 
he  hasn't  time  to  be  anything  else.  Not  that  I  object 
to  a  man  having  a  conscience,  y'understand.  But  Epps 
hasn't  anything  else.  You  know  how  it  is  in  the  hat 
trade,  Otto ;  you've  got  to  be  a  good  fellow." 

Mr.  Spingle  paused  to  pat  his  silken  bosom,  in  hue 
reminiscent  of  sunset  in  the  Grand  Canon.  That  he 
was  a  good  fellow,  a  lion  vivant,  even,  was  generally 
admitted  in  the  hat  trade. 

"You  see,"  went  on  the  Napoleon  of  Hatdom,  "your 
assistant  has  to  be  nice  to  the  trade.  That's  almost  his 
chief  job.  Eemember  the  motto  of  our  house  is,  'Our 
business  friends  are  our  personal  friends.'  That's 
meant  a  lot  to  us,  Otto.  Now  and  then  you've  simply 
got  to  take  a  big  buyer  out  and  show  him  a  good  time 
— buy  him  a  meal  and  take  him  to  the  Winter  Garden. 
You  and  I  are  mostly  too  busy  to  do  it,  but  your  assist- 


2io    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

ant  isn't.  Whitaker  made  us  a  lot  of  good  friends,  and 
good  customers,  too,  because  lie  was  a  regular  fella  and 
knew  the  ropes.  But  can  you  imagine  old  Epps  giving 
a  party  ?" 

Mr.  Blatter  was  forced  to  admit  that  he  couldn't. 

"But  he's  so  willing,"  he  argued. 

"Oh,  sure,"  agreed  Mr.  Spingle;  "and  sober  and  in- 
dustrious and  stands  without  hitching  and  all  that.  But 
he's  too  much  of  a  hermit.  No  more  personality  than 
a  parsnip.  No  spirit.  No  nerve.  No  fire.  No  zip. 
Sorry  I  can't  jump  him  up ;  he  may  be  a  good  man,  but 
he's  not  a  good  fellow." 

"I  suppose  it  will  have  to  be  Hydeman,  then,"  re- 
marked Mr.  Blatter,  rising.  "He's  a  little  too  slick 
and  flip  to  suit  me,  and  we  don't  know  much  about  him, 
but  I  suppose  he'd  know  how  to  show  a  buyer  Broad- 
way." 

"I'll  bet  he  would,"  said  Mr.  Spingle.  "Try  him 
out.  "Rut  watch  his  expense  account,  Otto." 

So  Tidbury  Epps  continued  to  enjoy  his  high  stool 
and  his  low  salary  and  to  copy  endless  little  figures  into 
big  black  books.  His  shoulders  drooped  a  little  when 
he  heard  of  Hydeman's  quick  promotion,  but  he  said 
nothing. 

Messrs.  Spingle  and  Blatter,  being  interested  solely 
in  what  went  on  outside  men's  heads,  did  not  attempt 
to  find  out  what  was  wrong  with  Tidbury  Epps.  But 
had  a  psychoanalyst  peered  darkly  into  the  interior  of 
Tidbury's  small  round  cranium  he  would  have  instantly 
noted  that  Mr.  Epps  was  suffering  from  a  bad  case  of 
inferiority  complex,  complicated  by  an  acute  attack  of 
Puritanical  complex. 

If  anybody  was  to  blame  for  this  it  was  not  Tidbury 
himself  but  his  Aunt  Elvira,  who,  with  the  aid  of  a 


Terrible  Epps  211 

patented  cat-o'-nine-tails  she  had  sent  all  the  way  to 
Chicago  for,  willow  switches  from  her  own  back  yard, 
and  an  edged  tongue  that  cut  worse  than  either,  had 
confined  his  juvenile  steps  to  a  very  straight  and  ex- 
ceedingly narrow  path  by  the  simple  process  of  lam- 
basting him  roundly  whenever  he  so  much  as  glanced 
to  the  right  or  to  the  left. 

Aunt  Elvira  was  a  lean  woman  with  no  digestion  to 
speak  of,  and  the  chief  tenet  of  her  philosophy  was 
that  whatever  is  enjoyable  is  sinful.  She  impressed 
this  creed  on  young  Tidbury  with  her  thin  but  sinewy 
arm,  until  one  day  while  castigating  him  violently  for 
laughing  at  a  comic  supplement  that  the  groceries  had 
come  in  she  succumbed  to  an  excess  of  virtue  and  a 
broken  blood  vessel. 

Tidbury  promptly  came  to  New  York  with  two  suits 
of  flannel  underwear  and  many  suppressed  desires,  and 
went  soberly  to  work  in  the  hat  company.  His  subse- 
quent life  was  as  empty  of  adventure,  variety,  sin  or 
success  as  the  life  of  a  Hubbard  squash.  His  job  wholly 
absorbed  him.  The  little  figures  in  the  big  books  be- 
came his  only  world.  He  had  never  learned  to  play. 

Yet  people  liked  Tidbury,  even  while  they  thought 
him  kin  to  the  snail.  He  had  a  quiet  twinkle  in  his 
eye  and  he  took  over  mean  jobs  and  night  work  with- 
out a  peep  of  protest.  It  was  his  willingness  to  take 
on  overtime  work,  and  his  quiet  competence  that  first 
attracted  the  approving  eye  of  Mr.  Blatter.  But  Mr. 
Blatter  had  to  admit  that  Mr.  Spingle  had  diagnosed 
the  case  of  Tidbury  Epps  all  too  accurately;  Tidbury 
was  indubitably,  incurably  a  dud;  and  that  is  worse 
than  being  a  dub.  If  any  latent  fire  lurked  beneath 
that  pepper-and-salt  bosom  no  one  had  ever  glimpsed 


212    Tht  Sin  of  Monsieur  Petti  pan 

lived  up 


bid  bi»  TOtefe  by  tbe 


of  Martha  Bitter,  the 


-:   he  to* 


:::?   r^rr-vr-^-i-s^lt 

to  feel  so  good,  boot 

:-   Lr-r:  L-.    ".  r    •._-..:  "_:r 
to  a  concert  im.  Cental 


;  lie 

,  with  Martha,  was 


witii  tie  tide. 


in  her,  did  not  think  much  of  this  aort  of 


rn  with  her-^tbej  bad 
the 


to  the  Aquarium  to 


Terrible  Epps  213 


had  burst  from  her,  and  -be  bad  odaimed,  «Ob,  Tid- 
bory,  you  are  10 — »  ojuetP* 

The  words  had  jolted  him;  be  had  Mid  them  ower  to 


was  tryis*;  to  keep  ham  Oiitmt; 
he  bent  over  hi*  task  the  day  they  Made  Hydeman  as- 

£irt^.r.t  v,  '.--•'  -.'<i-:-~.  rr-ir-ii'^r.  XSJkHff  --i  i  ^~. '.-'•?•& 
lately  that  Martha  talked  about  Mr.  Hydeman  a  great 

Lid  •&•*•!  fta4  I.:V-v  MHM|  ;,  ••!  v.  gBj  •• 
of  thoae  high-lapeied,  avM^vsiated  ante  that  Mr.  Hyde- 
man  affected;  abe  bad  qootod  lome  of  Mr.  Hydeman'a 
witticiama,  and  bad  retailed  tome  iM'iitrti  from  hk 
highly  colored  life.  In  ihort,  abe  appealed  to  hap§ 
VMM  A  Hidden  afjw*»  iwtfi'fft  in  Mr.  Hjdemaa. 

Tidbory  Epj»  eodd  not  drive  from  hi*  mind  tie 
disquieting  thought  that  Mr.  Hydeman  as  a  rival  would 
be  dangerous.  In  the  washroom  Mr.  Hydeman  made 
no  secret  of  his  finesse  as  a  Don  Juan.  He  was  every- 
thing that  Tidbory  was  not— dash isg,  worldly,  confi- 
dent. There  was  suiBelhuig  about  bis  smooth  Uack 
hair,  held  in  place  by  a  shiny  gummy  substiarr,  some- 
thing about  die  angle  at  which  be  tOted  bis  short- 
brimmed  hat,  y^i^^^i  atss4  A«  vrav  ^  :^L:  little 
knot  of  brifliant  tie  fitted  into  his  modiabry  low  eoOar, 
something  about  die  way  he  filliped  the  ash  from  bis 
cigarette  so  that  one  could  see  the  diamond  twinkle  on 
his  finger— that  earned  a  subtle  suggestion  of  Sflfhistf- 
cation  and  an  adventurous  natnre. 

That  morning  they  had  entered  together— Tidborj 
and  Mr.  Hydeman— and  Tidbory,  with  icy  fingers 
gripping  his  heart,  had  noted  that  Martha  bestowed  on 
Mr.  Hydeman  a  smile  with  a  lingering  personal  note 
in  it,  while  her  greeting  to  Tidbory  was  a  curt  formal 


214    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Petti pon 

nod.  His  bitter  cup  was  full,  and  for  the  first  time  in 
his  life  he  gave  way  to  the  pangs  of  jealousy  when,  at 
noontime,  he  saw  Mr.  Hydeman  take  her  to  lunch. 
Tidbury  came  upon  them,  talking  and  laughing  to- 
gether, and  Martha  made  not  the  slightest  attempt  to 
conceal  her  interest  in  the  suave  new  assistant  to  the 
sales  manager;  she  was  open,  even  brazen  about  it. 

Tidbury  was  moodily  copying  figures  and  trying  not 
to  heed  the  fact  that  the  green-eyed  monster  was  clutch- 
ing him  with  torturing  talons  when  Mr.  Hydeman  came 
up  to  his  desk  and  prodded  him  playfully  in  the  ribs. 

"Well,  old  Tid,"  remarked  Mr.  Hydeman,  "I'll  bet 
you  wish  you  were  going  to  be  in  my  shoes  to-night." 

Tidbury  looked  up  from  his  work. 

"Why?"  he  asked. 

For  answer  Mr.  Hydeman  thrust  two  tickets  beneath 
Tidbury's  stub  of  nose.  With  only  a  vague  compre- 
hension Tidbury  glanced  at  what  was  printed  on  them. 

ADMIT  ONE 
THE  PAGAN  KOUT 

ALL  GEEENWICH  VILLAGE  WILL  BE  THESE 
WEBBER  HALL 

ONLY  PERSONS  IN  COSTUME  ADMITTED.     DON'T  Miss 

THE  DARING  GARDEN  OF  EDEN  BALLET  AND 

MASQUE  AT  FOUR  A.M. 

"Are  you  a  Greenwich  Villager?"  asked  Tidbury. 
Mr.  Hydeman  smiled  at  the  note  of  horror  in  Tid- 
bury's voice. 

"Oh,  I  hang  out  down  there,"  he  admitted  airily. 
"And  you're  going  to  the  Pagan  Kout  ?" 


Terrible  Epps  215 

Even  into  the  seclusion  of  Calais,  Maine,  and  Mrs. 
Kelty's,  rumors  of  that  revel  had  filtered. 

"I  never  miss  one,"  replied  Mr.  Hydeman  grandly. 
"And  say,  I've  a  costume  this  year  that's  a  knockout" 

"You  have?" 

"Yes.  I've  got  a  preacher's  outfit.  Can  you  imagine 
me  a  parson  ?" 

Weakly  Tidbury  said  he  couldn't. 

"And  say,"  went  on  Mr.  Hydeman,  lowering  his 
voice  to  a  confidential  whisper,  "I'll  have  a  flask  of  hip 
oil  on  me." 

"Hip  oil?" 

"Sure.  Diamond  juice." 

"Diamond  juice?" 

"Aw,  hooch.    For  me  and  the  gal." 

"The  girl  ?"  quavered  Tidbury. 

"Say,"  demanded  Mr.  Hydeman,  "did  you  think  I 
was  going  to  take  a  hippopotamus  with  me  ?" 

Tidbury's  small  face  was  pathetic. 

"You  don't  know  what  you're  missing,  Tid,"  Mr. 
Hydeman  rattled  on.  "It's  a  real  naughty  party. 
Those  costumes !  Oh,  bebe."  Mr.  Hydeman  rolled  his 
eyes  toward  the  roof  and  blew  thither  a  kiss.  "Last 
year  there  was  a  Cleopatra  there  and  she  didn't  have 
a  thing  on  her  but  a  pair  of " 

"The  cashier's  waiting  for  these  figures,"  mumbled 
Mr.  Epps.  "I've  got  to  go  to  him." 

He  heard  Hydeman's  sniggle  of  laughter  behind  him. 

That  evening  the  desperate  Tidbury  met  Martha 
Hitter  as  she  was  leaving  the  hat  company's  building. 

"May  I  come  to  see  you  to-night?"  he  asked,  trying 
not  to  stammer,  and  hoping  his  ears  were  not  as  red 
as  they  felt.  "There's  a  nice  band  concert  in  Prospect 
Park  and  I  thought " 


216    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

Martha  Kitter  cocked  her  head  to  one  side  and  smiled 
mysteriously. 

"I'm  sorry,  Mr.  Epps,"  she  said  coolly,  "but  I  have 
an  engagement." 

"You — have — an — engagement?"  He  repeated  the 
words  as  if  they  were  a  prison  sentence. 

"Yes." 

"Where?" 

"Oh,  it's  a  masquerade."  She  smiled,  her  head  on 
one  side. 

"Whom  are  you  going  with?"  he  blurted;  he  was 
trembling. 

"That  would  be  telling,"  she  laughed.  "Well,  good 
night,  Mr.  Epps.  I  must  hurry  home  and  g^t  my 
costume  on.  I'm  going  as  a  gypsy." 

And  she  disappeared  into  the  maw  of  the  Subway. 

A  masquerade!  In  gypsy  costume!  Tidbury  was 
struck  by  the  lightning  of  complete  realization;  he  un- 
derstood Hydeman's  leer  now.  Feebly  he  leaned 
against  a  lamp-post  until  his  numbed  brain  could  re- 
cover from  the  impact.  Then  he  committed  a  sin.  De- 
liberately he  kicked  the  lamp-post  a  vicious  kick. 

"Darn  it  all,"  he  muttered  through  clenched  teeth. 
"Yes,  gosh  darn  it  all !" 

Then  he  went  wearily  to  his  boarding  house. 
Morosely  he  ate  of  Mrs.  Kelty's  boiled  beef  and  bread 
pudding;  morosely  he  sat  in  his  lonely  stall  of  a  bed- 
room and  glowered  at  a  hole  in  the  red  carpet. 

"I'm  too  quiet.  Too  darn  quiet,"  he  kept  saying  to 
himself  in  a  sort  of  litany.  "Yes,  too  gosh  darn  quiet." 

And  when  he  thought  of  Martha,  sweet  simple 
Martha,  and  so  short  a  time  ago  his  Martha,  at  the 
Pagan  Rout  with  Hydeman,  surrounded  by  indecorous 
and  no  doubt  inebriate  denizens  of  Greenwich  Village, 


Terrible  Epps  217 

his  head  all  but  burst.  That  she  was  lost,  and,  most 
poignant  thought  of  all,  lost  to  him,  kept  beating  in 
upon  his  brain.  He  moaned. 

Suddenly  his  spine  straightened  with  a  terrible  re- 
solve. His  small  guileless  face  was  set  in  lines  of  stem 
decision.  He  leaped  from  his  chair,  dived  under  his 
brass  bed,  rummaged  in  his  trunk  and  fished  up  twenty- 
five  hard-saved  dollars  in  a  sock. 

Clapping  his  hat  on  his  head  in  emulation  of  the 
tilt  of  Mr.  Hydeman's  hat  Tidbury  issued  forth.  In 
the  hall  he  passed  Mrs.  Kelty,  who  regarded  him  with 
some  surprise. 

"You're  not  going  out,  Mr.  Epps?"  she  asked. 
"Why,  it's  after  nine !" 

"I  am  going  out,  Mrs.  Kelty,"  announced  Tidbury 
Epps. 

"Back  soon  ?" 

"I  may  never  come  back,"  he  answered  hollowly. 

"Sakes  alive !    Where  are  you  going  ?" 

"I  am  going,"  said  Tidbury  Epps  firmly,  "to  the 
devil." 

And  he  strode  into  the  night. 


Never  having  gone  to  the  devil  before,  Mr.  Epps 
was  somewhat  perplexed  in  mind  as  to  the  direction 
he  should  take.  But  a  moment's  reflection  convinced 
him  that  Greenwich  Village  was  the  most  promising 
place  for  such  a  pilgrimage.  He  had  never  been  there 
before;  he  had  been  afraid  to  go  there.  Startling 
stories  of  the  gay  profligacy  rampant  in  that  angle  of 
old  New  York  had  reached  his  ears.  He  believed  firmly 
that  if  the  devil  has  any  headquarters  in  New  York 


218    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

they  are  somewhere  below  Fourteenth  Street  and  west 
of  Washington  Square. 

Mr.  Epps  debouched  from  a  bus  in  Washington 
Square  and  started  westward  along  West  Fourth  Street 
with  the  cautious  but  determined  tread  of  an  explorer 
penetrating  a  trackless  and  cannibal-infested  jungle. 
He  glanced  apprehensively  to  right  and  left,  his  eyes 
wide  for  the  sight  of  painted  sirens,  his  ears  agape  for 
gusts  of  ribald  merriment.  At  each  corner  he  paused 
expectantly,  anticipating  that  he  might  come  upon  a 
delirious  party  of  art  students  gamboling  about  a  model. 
He  traversed  two  blocks  without  seeing  so  much  as  a 
emock;  what  he  did  see  was  an  ancient  man  of  Italian 
derivation  carrying  a  bag  of  charcoal  on  his  head,  and 
a  stout  woman  wheeling  twins  stuffed  uncomfortably 
into  a  single-seater  gocart,  and  a  number  of  nondescript 
humans  who  from  their  sedate  air  might  well  have  been 
Brooklyn  funeral  directors.  He  owned,  after  a  bit,  to 
a  certain  sense  of  disappointment.  Going  to  the  devil 
was  more  of  a  chore  than  he  had  fancied. 

As  he  trekked  ever  westward  a  sound  at  length  smote 
his  dilated  ears  and  made  him  catch  his  breath.  It 
was  issuing  from  a  dim-lit  basement,  and  was  filtering 
through  batik  curtains  stenciled  with  strange,  smeary 
beasts.  He  had  heard  the  wild,  dissipated  notes  of  a 
mechanical  piano.  A  lurid  but  somewhat  inexpertly 
lettered  sign  above  the  basement  door  read, 

YE  AMIABLE  OYSTER 
REFEESHMINTS  AT  ALL  HES. 

With  a  newborn  boldness  Tidbury  Epp®  thrust  open 
the  door  and  entered.  No  shower  of  confetti,  no  pop- 
ping of  corks,  no  rousing  stein  song  greeted  him.  Save 


Terrible  Epps  219 

for  the  industrious  piano  the  place  seemed  empty. 
However,  by  the  feeble  beams  that  came  from  the  lights, 
bandaged  in  batik  like  so  many  sore  thumbs,  he  dis- 
cerned a  mountainous  matron  behind  a  cash  register, 
engaged  in  tatting. 

"Where's  everybody  ?"  he  asked  of  her. 

"Oh,  things  will  liven  up  after  a  bit,"  she  yawned. 

Tidbury  sat  at  a  small  bright  blue  table  and  scanned 
a  card  affixed  to  the  wall. 

Angel's  Ambrosia.  .$0.50  Very  dry  Martini.  .$0.60 

Horse's   Neck 60  Very,  very  dry 

Devil's  Delight 70         Martini     .90 

Dry  Martini 50  Champagne  Sizzle. .     .75 

A  sleepy  waiter  with  a  soup-stained  vest  came  from 
the  inner  room  presently. 

"Gimme  a  Devil's  Delight,"  ordered  Tidbury  Epps 
recklessly. 

He  had  heard  that  Greenwich  Village,  the  untram- 
meled,  laughs  openly  in  the  teeth  of  the  Eighteenth 
Amendment.  He  had  never  in  his  life  tasted  an  alco- 
holic drink,  but  to-night  he  was  stopping  at  nothing. 
The  Devil's  Delight  came,  and  Tidbury  as  he  sipped 
its  pink  saccharinity  found  himself  feeling  that  the 
devil  is  rather  easily  delighted.  He  had  expected  the 
potion  to  make  his  head  buzz ;  but  it  did  not.  Instead 
it  distinctly  suggested  rather  weak  and  not  very  supe- 
rior strawberry  sirup  and  carbonated  water.  He 
crooked  a  summoning  finger  at  the  waiter. 

"Horse's  Neck,"  he  commanded. 

The  Horse's  Neck  made  its  appearance,  an  insipid- 
looking  amber  fluid  with  a  wan  piece  of  lemon  peel 
floating  shamefacedly  on  its  surface. 


220   The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

"Tastes  just  like  ginger  ale  to  me,"  remarked  Mr. 
Epps.  "Wadjuh  expeck  in  a  Horse's  Neck?"  queried 
the  waiter  bellicosely.  "Chloride  of  lime  ?" 

"I  can't  feel  it  at  all,"  complained  Mr.  Epps. 

"Feel  it  ?"  The  waiter  raised  his  brows.  "Say,  what 
do  you  think  this  joint  is  ?  A  dump  ?  We  ain't  boot- 
leggers, mister." 

"Oh !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Epps. 

He  was  about  to  go  elsewhere,  when  a  babel  of  ex- 
cited voices  outside  the  door  made  him  sink  back  into 
his  chair;  evidently  the  promise  of  the  tatting  matron 
was  to  be  made  good,  and  Ye  Amiable  Oyster  was  about 
to  liven  up. 

The  first  thing  that  entered  the  door  was  an  animal 
— a  full-size,  shaggy  anthropoid  ape,  big  as  a  man.  Mr. 
Epps  was  too  alarmed  to  bolt.  But  as  the  creature  ca- 
reened into  the  light  Mr.  Epps  observed  that  his  face 
was  human  and  slightly  Hibernian.  Behind  him  came 
a  girl,  rather  sketchily  dressed  for  autumn  in  a  pair  of 
bead  portieres,  a  girdle  or  two,  and  a  gilt  plaster  bird, 
which  was  bound  firmly  to  her  head.  Mr.  Epps  had 
seen  things  like  her  on  cigarette  boxes.  A  second  couple 
followed,  hilarious.  The  man  wore  a  tight  velvet  suit, 
a  sombrero  several  yards  around,  black  mustaches  of 
prodigious  length  and  bristle  that  did  not  match  the  red 
of  his  hair,  and  earrings  the  size  of  cantaloupes ;  it  was 
not  clear  whether  he  was  intended  to  be  a  pirate  or  an 
organ  grinder  or  a  compromise  between  the  two ;  but  it 
was  clear  that  he  was  in  a  state  where  it  did  not  matter, 
to  him,  in  the  least.  His  companion  wore  a  precarious 
garment  of  dry  grass,  and  her  arms  were  stained  brown ; 
at  intervals  she  conveyed  the  information  to  the  gen- 
eral atmosphere  that  she  was  a  bimbo  from  a  bamboo 
isle. 


Terrible  Epps  221 

The  four,  after  an  impromptu  ring-around-a-rosie, 
collapsed  into  chairs  near  the  wide-eyed  Epps.  Fasci- 
nated he  stared  at  them — the  first  authentic  natives  of 
Greenwich  Village  on  whom  his  cloistered  eye  had  ever 
rested. 

"Ginger  ale,"  bawled  the  ape. 

It  was  brought.  The  ape  dipping  into  a  fold  in  his 
anatomy  brought  to  light  a  capacious  flask,  kissed  it 
solemnly,  and  poured  its  contents  into  the  glasses  of 
the  others. 

"Jake,  that  sure  is  the  real  old  stuff,"  said  the  girl 
in  the  grass  dress. 

"Made  it  m'sef,"  said  the  ape  proudly.  "Y'see,  I 
took  dozen  apricots,  and  ten  pounds  sugar,  and  some 
yeast  and  some  raisins,  and  mixed  'em  in  a  jug,  and 
added  water  and " 

"That's  nine  times  we  heard  all  about  that,"  inter- 
rupted the  pirate  or  organ  grinder.  "Better  be  careful, 
anyhow.  Mebbe  that  guy  is  a  revnoo  officer." 

They  all  turned  to  stare  at  Mr.  Epps. 

"Of  course  he  ain't  'nofficer,  Ed,"  protested  the  ape, 
surveying  Tidbury  with  care.  "He's  got  too  kind  a 
face.  You  ain't  'nofficer,  are  you?" 

"No,"  said  Tidbury. 

"What  did  I  tell  yuh  ?"  cried  the  ape,  triumphantly, 
to  his  companions.  "Shove  up  your  chair,  old  sport, 
and  have  a  drink  with  us.  You  look  like  a  live  one. 
I  like  your  face." 

Thus  bidden,  Tidbury,  with  an  air  of  abandon,  joined 
the  group.  The  ape  named  Jake  tilted  his  flask  over 
Tidbury's  spiritless  Horse's  Neck  with  such  vehement 
good-fellowship  that  a  gush  of  pungent  brown  fluid 
spurted  from  the  container.  Tidbury  downed  the  mix- 


222    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

ture  at  a  gulp;  it  made  tears  start  to  his  eyes  and  a 
conflagration  flame  up  in  his  brain. 

"Howzit?"  demanded  Jake  the  ape. 

"  'Sgoo',"  answered  Tidbury  warmly. 

"Have  'nuther.  Got  plenty,"  said  Jake,  producing  a 
second  flask  from  another  recess  in  his  shaggy  skin.  "I 
like  your  face." 

"Don't  care  if  I  do,"  said  Tidbury  nonchalantly. 

The  lights  in  the  near-cafe  were  very  bright,  the 
voices  very  high,  the  conversation  exquisitely  witty,  the 
mechanical  piano  a  symphonic  rhapsody,  and  the  heart 
of  Tidbury  Epps  was  pumping  with  wild,  unwonted 
pumps;  he  smiled  to  himself.  He  was  going  to  the 
devil  at  a  great  rate.  He  waxed  loquacious.  He  told 
them  anecdotes ;  he  even  sang  a  little. 

He  beamed  upon  Jake,  and  playfully  plucked  a  tuft 
of  hair  from  his  costume. 

"Nice  li'P  monkey,"  he  said  affably. 

"Not  a  monkey !"  denied  Jake  indignantly. 

"Wad  are  you?    S-s-schimpaz-z-ze-e-e  ?" 

"Nope.    Not  a  S-s-schimpaz-z-ze-e-e." 

"Kan-tan?" 

"Nope.    Not  a  ran-tan." 

"Bamboo?" 

"Nope.    Not  a  bamboo." 

"Well,  wad  are  you  ?" 

Jake  thumped  his  hairy  chest  proudly. 

"I'm  a  griller,"  he  explained. 

"Oh,"  said  Mr.  Epps,  satisfied.  "A  griller.  Of 
course !  Is  it  hard  work  ?" 

"Work  ?"  cried  Jake.  "Say,  this  ain't  my  real  skin. 
It's  a  'sguise." 

"Oh,"  said  Mr.  Epps.  "So  you're  'sguised?  Wad 
did  you  do  ?" 


Terrible  Epps  223 

"Careful,  Jake,"  the  organ  grinder  or  pirate  warned. 
"He  may  be  a  revnoo  officer." 

The  gorilla  turned  on  him  angrily. 

"Lookahere,  Ed  Peterson,  how  dare  you  pass  re- 
marks like  that  about  my  ole  friend,  Mr. What  is 

your  name,  anyhow  ?  Of  course  he  ain't  no  revnofficer  ? 
Are  you  ?" 

"I'll  fight  anybody  who  says  I  am,"  declared  Tid- 
bury  Epps,  glaring  fiercely  around  at  the  empty  chairs 
and  tables. 

"You  a  fighter?"  inquired  the  gorilla,  in  a  voice  in 
which  awe,  admiration  and  alcohol  mingled. 

Mr.  Epps  contracted  his  brow  and  narrowed  his  eyes. 

"Yep,"  he  said  impressively.  "I'm  Terrible  Battling 
Epps.  I'd  rather  fight  than  eat."  He  turned  sternly 
to  the  gorilla.  "Why  are  you  'sguised  ?  Wad  did  you 
do?" 

"Why,  you  poor  nut,"  put  in  the  girl  in  the  beads, 
"we're  going  to  the  Pagan  Rout." 

"Sure,  that's  it,"  chimed  in  Jake.  "Goin'  to  the 
Pagan  Row.  Come  on  along,  Terrible." 

"Aw,  I'm  tired  of  Pagan  Routs,"  said  Mr.  Epps 
loftily.  But  the  suggestion  speeded  up  the  pumpings 
of  his  heart. 

"Oh,  do  come !"  urged  the  girl  in  the  beads. 

"Ain't  got  no  'sguise,"  said  Mr.  Epps.  He  was 
wavering. 

"Aw,  come  on!"  cried  the  gorilla,  clapping  him  on 
the  shoulder  till  his  teeth  rattled.  "Proud  to  have  you 
with  us,  Terrible.  I  know  a  live  one  when  I  see  one. 
Come  on  along.  You'll  see  a  lot  of  your  friends  there." 

His  friends  ?    Tidbury  thought  of  Martha. 

"If  I  only  had  a  'sguise "  he  began. 

"You  can  get  one  round  at  Steinbeck's,  on  Seventh 


224    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

Avenue,"  promptly  informed  the  organ  grinder-pirate. 
"That  is,"  he  added  with  sudden  suspicion,  "if  you  ain't 
one  of  these  here  revnofficers." 

"S-s-s-s-sh,  Ed,"  cautioned  Jake,  the  gorilla.  "Do 
you  want  Terrible  Battling  Epps  to  take  a  poke  at  you  ?" 

Tidbury  had  made  up  his  mind. 

"I'll  go,"  he  announced. 

"Good!"  exclaimed  the  gorilla  delightedly.  "Atta 
boy !  Glad  to  have  a  real  N'Yawk  sport  with  us.  Meet 
you  at  Webber  Hall,  Terrible." 

"Webber  Hall?  Wherezat?"  inquired  Tidbury  as 
he  sought  to  negotiate  the  door. 

"Well,"  confessed  the  gorilla,  "I  dunno  'zactly  m'sef. 
Y'see,  I'm  from  Kansas  City  m'sef.  In  the  lid  game, 
I  am.  Biggest  firm  west  of  the  Mizzizippi.  Last  year 
we  sold " 

"Aw,  stop  selling  and  tell  Terrible  how  to  get  to 
Webber  Hall,"  put  in  the  girl  in  the  beads;  she  ap- 
peared to  be  the  gorilla's  wife. 

"Well,"  said  Jake,  thoughtfully  rubbing  his  fuzzy 
head,  "far  as  I  remember,  you  go  out  to  the  square  and 
you  go  straight  along  till  you  get  to  the  L  and  you  turn 
to  the  right " 

"Left!"  interjected  the  organ  grinder-pirate. 

"Right,"  repeated  the  gorilla  firmly.  "And  then 
you  turn  down  another  street — no,  you  don't — you  go 
straight  on  till  you  see  a  dentist's  sign,  a  big  gold  tooth, 
with  'Gee,  it  didn't  hurt  a  bit  at  Dr.  B.  Schmuck'a 
Parlors,'  painted  on  it,  and  you  turn  to  your  right " 

"Left,"  corrected  the  pirate-organ  grinder  sternly. 

"Waz  difference?"  went  on  the  gorilla  blandly. 
"Well,  as  I  was  saying,  you  turn  to  the  right  or  left 
and  then  you  go  along  three  or  four  blocks,  and  then 
you  turn  to  your  left " 


Terrible  Epps  225 

"Eight,  I  tell  you!"  roared  the  man  in  velvet. 

"Oh,  well,  you  go  along  until  you  come  to  a  corner 
and  you  turn  it  and  go  down  a  little  bit,  and  there  you 
are!" 

"Where  am  I  ?"  Mr.  Epps,  posing  against  the  door, 
asked. 

"Wefeber  Hall,"  said  Jake.    "Pagan  Row." 

"Oh,"  said  Mr.  Epps. 

"Didn't  you  follow  me?" 

"Of  course  I  followed  you." 

"Good.  See  you  at  the  party,  Terrible.  You're 
hot  stuff." 

"I'll  be  there.    G'night." 

"G'night,  Terrible,  old  scout." 

§3 

Mr.  Epps  emerged  from  Ye  Amiable  Oyster,  walking 
with  elaborate  but  difficult  dignity.  He  had  only  a 
remote  idea  where  he  was,  but  he  knew  where  he  wanted 
to  go — Steinbock's  on  Seventh  Avenue.  So  with  a 
temerity  quite  foreign  to  him  he  stepped  up  briskly  to 
the  first  passing  pedestrian  and  asked,  "Say,  frien', 
where's  Sebble  Abloo  ?" 

The  man  accosted  puckered  a,  puzzled  brow. 

"I  don't  get  you,  frien',"  he  said. 

"Sebble  Abloo !"  repeated  Mr.  Epps  loudly,  thinking 
the  stranger's  hearing  might  be  defective. 

"What?" 

"Sebble  Abloo!"  roared  Mr.  Epps. 

The  man  shook  his  head  as  one  giving  up  a 
conundrum. 

"Sebble  Abloo,"  repeated  Mr.  Epps  at  the  top  of  his 
voice.  "Look."  He  held  up  his  fingers  and  counted 


226    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

them  off.  "One,  two,  sree,  four,  fi',  sizz,  sebble.  Sebble 
Abloo!" 

"Oh,  Seventh  Avenue.  Why  didn't  you  say  so  in 
the  first  place?" 

"I  did." 

"I'm  going  that  way.    I'll  show  you." 

The  stranger  steered  Tidbury  through  a  rabbit  war- 
ren of  streets — the  Greenwich  Village  streets  never 
have  made  up  their  minds  where  they  are  going — and 
started  him,  with  a  gentle  push,  up  Seventh  Avenue. 

Presently  by  some  miracle  Tidbury  stumbled  upon 
Steinbeck's,  and  pushed  his  way  into  a  jumble  of  masks, 
wigs,  helmets  and  assorted  junk,  till  he  approached  a 
patriarch  in  a  skullcap,  hidden  behind  a  Niagara  of 
white  beard. 

"  'Lo,  ole  fel',"  said  Mr.  Epps  affably.  "What  are 
you  'sguised  as  ?  Sandy  Claws  or  a  cough  drop  ?" 

"Did  you  wish  something?"  inquired  the  patriarch 
coldly. 

"Sure,"  said  Tidbury.  "Gimme  'sguise  for  Pagon 
Row." 

"Cash  in  advance,"  said  the  patriarch.  "What  sort 
of  costume?" 

Tidbury  considered. 

"Wadjuh  got?" 

The  venerable  Steinbock  enumerated  rapidly,  "Bear, 
bandit,  policeman,  Turk,  golliwog,  ballet  girl,  kewpie, 
pantaloon,  Uncle  Sam,  tramp,  diver,  Lord  Fauntleroy, 
devil " 

The  ears  of  Mr.  Epps  twitched  at  the  last  word. 

"Devil?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Steinbock;  "a  swell  rig;  nice  red 
suit ;  hasn't  been  worn  a  dozen  times."  He  leaned  for- 


Terrible  Epps  227 

ward  toward  Tidbury  and  whispered,  "And  I'll  throw 
in  a  brand-new  pair  of  horns  and  a  tail !" 

"I'll  take  it!"  cried  Tidbury.  "Where  can  I  hang 
my  pants?" 

After  an  interval  there  emerged  from  the  depths  of 
the  Steinbock  establishment  a  small  uncertain  figure 
muffled  in  an  old  raincoat.  The  coat  was  short  and 
from  beneath  it  protruded  bright  red  legs  and  a  gen- 
erous length  of  red  tail,  with  a  spike  on  the  end  of  it 
that  gave  forth  sharp  metallic  sounds  as  it  bumped 
along  the  pavement.  A  derby  hat  concealed  one  horn, 
but  the  other  was  visible ;  the  face  was  Mephistophelian 
in  its  general  character,  but  softened  and  rounded — 
the  countenance  of  a  rather  amiable  minor  devil. 

Tidbury  Epps  paused  on  a  street  corner  to  get  his 
bearings.  He  had  read  somewhere  that  woodsmen,  lost 
in  the  forest,  can  find  the  points  of  the  compass  because 
moss  always  grows  on  the  north  side  of  trees.  He  was 
carefully  investigating  a  lamp-post  for  a  trace  of  moss 
when  a  beady-eyed  urchin  approached  him  with  out- 
thrust  hand. 

"Give  us  one,  mister?" 

"One  what?" 

"A  sample." 

"Sample  of  what?" 

"Ain't  you  advertising  something  ?" 

Tidbury  drew  himself  up. 

"No,"  he  said  with  dignity.  "How  do  I  get  to 
Wazzington  Square?" 

"Aw,  chee,"  the  urchin  said  in  disgust,  "you're  one 
of  them  artist  guys !  Washington  Square  is  two  blocka 
south  and  three  blocks  west." 

With  every  corpuscle  in  his  small  frame  aglow  with 
an  excitement  he  had  never  before  experienced  Tidbury 


228    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

Epps  started  in  determined  search,  of  the  Pagan  Rout. 
A  grim  purpose  had  been  forming  in  his  brain.  So 
Martha  Ritter  thought  he  was  quiet,  eh?  Hydeman 
had  sniggered  at  him,  had  he?  Just  wait  till  Terrible 
Battling  Epps  reached  the  ball  and  discovered  the  well- 
fed  person  of  Mr.  Hydeman  in  clerical  garb.  There 
would  be  fireworks,  he  promised  himself.  No  one  was 
going  to  steal  the  girl  of  Terrible  Epps  and  get  away 
with  it. 

These,  and  thoughts  of  a  similar  trend,  reeled 
through  the  brain  of  Tidbury  as  he  hurried  with  a  series 
of  skips  and  now  and  then  a  short  sprint  along  the 
curbstone. 

So  busy  did  he  become  planning  a  dramatic  descent 
on  Hydeman  that  he  forgot  the  directions  of  the  urchin, 
and  soon  found  himself  hopelessly  astray  in  an  eel 
tangle  of  streets,  as  he  repeated,  "Two  blocks  wes'  and 
three  blocks  souse.  Or  was  it  three  blocks  souse  and 
two  blocks  wes'  ?" 

Gripping  his  tail  firmly  in  his  hand  he  tried  both 
plans.  Passers-by  eyed  him  with  the  blase  curiosity  of 
New  Yorkers,  as  he  passed  at  a  dog  trot. 

Sometimes  they  nudged  each  other  and  remarked, 
"Artist.  Goin'  to  this  here  Pagan  Rout.  Pretty  snoot- 
ful,  too.  Lucky  stiff." 

No  one  ventured  to  impede  his  slightly  erratic  prog- 
ress; after  half  an  hour  of  wandering  he  stopped, 
mopped  his  brow  and  observed,  "Ought  to  be  there  by 
now." 

As  he  said  this  he  saw  two  figures  across  the  street, 
two  ladies  of  mature  mold,  picking  their  way  along. 
It  was  their  garb  which  made  him  give  a  shout  of 
triumph  and  follow  them.  For  one,  who  was  fat,  was 
dressed  as  a  colonial  dame  with  powdered  hair,  and  the 


Terrible  Epps  229 

other,  who  was  fatter,  was  a  forty-year-old  edition  of 
Little  Red  Riding  Hood;  her  hair  was  in  pigtails,  but 
she  was  discreetly  skirted  to  the  ankle  bones.  He  fol- 
lowed these  masqueraders  with  the  wary  steps  of  an 
Indian  stalking  a  moose,  until  they  turned  into  the 
basement  of  a  towering  building  of  brick,  from  which 
issued  the  melodic  scraping  of  fiddles  and  the  pleasing 
bleating  of  horns.  His  heart  skipped  a  beat.  The 
Pagan  Rout !  The  devil's  doorway. 

Tidbury  Epps  shucked  off  his  raincoat  and  derby  hat, 
tossed  them  at  a  fire  hydrant,  put  on  his  mask,  dropped 
his  tail,  squared  his  red  shoulders,  knotted  up  his  small 
fists,  drew  in  a  deep  breath  and  plunged  into  the  hall. 
So  engrossed  was  he  in  these  preparations  that  he  failed 
to  note  a  homemade  poster  nailed  outside  the  door. 
It  read: 


COSTUME  PARTY 

IN   THE 

CHURCH  BASEMENT  TO-NIGHT 

With  a  rolling  gait  Tidbury  Epps  entered  the  hall. 
Figures  eddied  about  him  in  a  dance,  and,  somewhat 
surprised,  Tidbury  noted  that  it  was  very  like  the  old- 
fashioned  waltzes  he  had  seen  in  Calais,  Maine.  The 
waltzers  evidently  regarded  dancing  as  a  business  of  the 
utmost  seriousness;  their  lips,  beneath  their  dominoes, 
were  rigid  and  severe,  save  when  they  counted  softly 
but  audibly,  "One,  two,  three,  turn.  One,  two,  three, 
turn."  In  vain  Tidbury  searched  the  room  for  Jake 


230    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

the  gorilla,  the  beaded  lady,  the  organ-grinding  pirate 
and  the  bimbo  from  the  bamboo  isle.  He  concluded 
that  Jake's  flasks  had  been  too  much  for  them.  And  he 
saw  no  gypsy  or  Hydeman.  Indeed,  as  he  watched 
the  restrained  and  sober  waltzers  he  could  not  escape 
the  conviction  that  the  Pagan  Rout,  for  an  institution 
so  widely  known  for  impropriety,  was  singularly  decent 
in  the  matter  of  costumes.  There  were  Priscillas  in 
ample  skirts,  farmerettes  in  baggy  overalls,  milkmaids 
in  Mother  Hubbards,  Pilgrim  fathers,  sailors,  and 
Chinese  in  voluminous  kimonos.  Tidbury,  a  little 
dazed  in  a  corner,  began  to  think  that  he  had  over- 
estimated the  glamour  of  sin. 

He  perceived  that  the  obese  Red  Riding  Hood  was 
standing  at  his  elbow,  gazing  at  him  with  some  curiosity. 

He  lurched  toward  her,  and  administered  a  slap  of 
good-fellowship  on  her  plump  shoulder. 

"  'Lo,  cutie,"  he  remarked  in  accents  slightly  blurred. 
"Where's  Cleopotter?" 

The  lady  gave  vent  to  a  squeal  of  surprise. 

"Sir,"  she  said,  "I  do  not  know  Miss  Potter." 

She  sniffed  the  atmosphere  in  the  vicinity  of  Mr. 
Epps,  gave  a  little  cluck  of  horror,  and  scurried  away 
like  a  duck  from  a  hawk. 

The  eyes  of  Mr.  Epps  followed  her  flight  and  he 
saw  that  she  headed  straight  for  a  man  who  sat  in  a 
distant  corner  of  the  hall;  the  man  was  masked,  but 
Tidbury  felt  every  muscle  in  his  five  feet  three  inches 
of  body  stiffen  as  he  saw  that  the  man  in  the  corner 
wore  the  garb  of  the  clergy.  Hydeman! 

Red  Riding  Hood  whispered  in  his  ear  and  pointed 
an  accusing  finger  toward  Tidbury;  the  man  in  the 
corner  gazed  earnestly  at  the  diminutive  red  devil  tee- 
tering on  red  hoofs.  By  now  Tidbury  had  spied  an- 


Terrible  Epps  231 

other  figure,  sitting  next  to  the  masked  preacher.  She 
was  a  gypsy.  And  as  she  gazed  at  her  companion  she 
cocked  her  head  to  one  side. 

With  tail  bouncing  along  the  floor  after  him  Tid- 
bury  started  briskly  in  their  direction  at  a  lope.  Within 
a  yard  of  them  he  reined  himself  down,  and  stood,  with 
a  hand  on  either  hip,  glaring  at  the  cleric  and  the 

gypsy- 

Hydeman  stood  up.  He  seemed  larger,  rounder 
than  the  assistant  to  the  sales  manager  known  to  Tid- 
bury  in  business  hours,  but  the  fierce  fire  of  jealousy 
burned  within  Mr.  Epps — and  he  was  not  to  be  daunted 
by  size. 

"So  it's  you,  is  it?"  he  remarked  with  biting 
emphasis. 

"Naturally,"  said  the  man.  "Whom  did  you  expect 
it  to  be?" 

His  voice  had  a  soft  sweet  note  in  it,  not  at  all  like 
the  sharp  staccato  of  Hydeman's  crisp  business  New 
Yorkese. 

"He's  making  fun  of  me,"  said  Tidbury,  and  the 
spirit  of  Terrible  Battling  Epps  wholly  possessed  him. 

"You  thought  I  was  a  dead  one,  eh  ?"  remarked  Mr. 
Epps.  "Well,  I'm  going  to  show  you  that  sometime 
the  quiet  ones  come  to  life  and " 

The  other  eyed  him  sternly. 

"Young  man,"  he  said,  "I  fear  that  you  are  er — a 
bit — er — under  the  weather.  I  fear  you  are  not  one 
of  us." 

"JSTot  one  of  you?"  roared  Tidbury  with  passion 
mounting.  "You're  darn  right  I'm  not  one  of  you — 
you  low,  immoral  Greenwich  Villagers,  leading  inno- 
cent girls  astray."  He  waved  a  thin  red  arm  toward 
the  gypsy. 


232    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

The  music  had  stopped  in  the  midst  of  a  bar;  the 
masqueraders  were  crowding  about.  The  accused 
ecclesiastic  glared  down  at  the  small  devil  before  him. 

"How  dare  you  say  such  a  thing  of  me?"  he  de- 
manded. "Who  are  you?" 

"You  know  well  enough  who  I  am,  Milt  Hydeman," 
cried  Tidbury,  breathing  jerkily.  "I'm  Terrible  Bat- 
tling Epps,  and " 

"Leave  our  hall  at  once !"  the  other  returned.  "You 
are  plainly  under  the  influence  of " 

He  stretched  out  a  hand  to  grasp  Tidbury  Epps  by 
the  shoulder,  and  as  he  did  so  Tidbury  brought  a  small 
but  angry  fist  into  swift  contact  with  the  clerical  waist- 
line. 

"Oof !"  grunted  the  man. 

"Oh,  dear!  Oh,  dear!"  screamed  the  Red  Riding 
Hood.  "The  devil  has  struck  the  Reverend  Doctor 
Bewley.  Help!  Help!" 

But  Tidbury,  deaf  to  all  things  but  battle,  had  buried 
his  other  fist  so  violently  in  his  opponent's  soft  center 
that  the  mask  popped  from  the  man's  face.  It  was  the 
round,  pink,  frightened  face  of  a  total  stranger. 

With  a  yelp  of  dismay  Tidbury  turned  to  flee,  but 
the  outraged  parishioners  had  pounced  on  him,  torn  off 
his  mask,  and  were  proving,  at  his  expense,  that  there 
is  still  such  a  thing  as  militant,  muscular  Christianity 
in  the  world.  As  they  bore  him,  kicking  and  strug- 
gling, to  the  door,  he  saw  in  all  the  blur  of  excited  faces 
one  face  with  staring,  unbelieving  eyes.  The  gypsy 
had  removed  her  mask,  and  she  was  Martha  Ritter.  In 
all  the  babble  of  voices  hers  was  the  only  one  he  heard. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Epps!  Oh,  Mr.  Epps!"  she  was  sobbing. 
"I  didn't  think  it  of  you !  I  didn't  think  it  of  you !" 

From  the  gutter  in  front  of  the  church  Tidbury  after 


Terrible  Epps  233 

a  while  picked  himself,  felt  tenderly  of  his  red-clad 
limbs,  found  them  whole  but  painful,  applied  a  bit  of 
cold  paving  brick  to  his  swelling  eye,  and  started  slowly 
and  thoughtfully  down  the  street,  his  tail,  broken  in 
the  fracas,  hanging  limply  between  his  legs.  Despite 
all,  the  potent  stimulus  of  Jake's  concoction  lingered 
with  him,  and  there  was  a  comforting  buzzing  in  his 
head  which  all  but  offset  the  feeling  of  dank  despair 
that  was  crowding  in  upon  him.  He  had  lost  Martha. 
That  was  sure.  He — he  was  a  failure.  He  couldn't 
even  go  to  the  devil. 

How  he  got  back  to  his  own  room  in  Mrs.  Kelty's 
boarding  house  he  never  knew,  but  that  was  where  the 
brazen  voice  of  the  alarm  clock  summoned  him  sharply 
from  deep  slumber.  His  head  felt  like  a  bass  drum 
full  of  bumblebees.  But  it  was  his  heart,  as  he  but- 
toned his  pepper-and-salt  vest  over  it,  that  hurt  him 
most.  He  tried  to  drive  from  him  the  aching  thoughts 
of  the  lost  Martha,  but  the  only  thought  he  could  sub- 
stitute was  the  scarcely  more  cheerful  one  that  he'd 
probably  be  cast  incontinently  from  the  hat  company 
when  news  of  his  brawl  reached  the  alert  ears  of  Messrs. 
Spingle  and  Blatter. 

Spurning  breakfast  he  hurried  to  his  office,  and  be- 
fore Martha  or  the  rest  arrived  he  had  climbed  wearily 
to  the  pinnacle  of  his  high  stool,  and  had  hunched  him- 
self over  his  figures.  He  was  struggling  to  distinguish 
between  the  dancing  nines  and  sixes  when  he  heard  a 
voice — an  oddly  familiar  voice — booming  out  from  the 
doorway  that  led  to  the  presidential  sanctum. 

"Well,"  said  the  voice,  "it  looks  to  me  just  now, 
Spingle,  as  if  we  could  use  about  ten  thousand  dozen 
of  your  Number  1A  hats  out  in  Kansas  City  this  year. 


234    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

Of  course  I'll  have  to  shop  around  a  bit  to  see  what  the 
others  can  offer " 

"Of  course,  Jake,  of  course,"  replied  Mr.  Spingle,  in 
the  satin  voice  Tidbury  knew  he  reserved  for  the  very 
largest  buyers.  "But  say,  Jake,  wouldn't  you  and  your 
wife  like  to  be  our  guests  at  a  little  party  to-night? 
Dinner  and  then  the  Winter  Garden  ?  Our  Mr.  Hyde- 
man  will  be  delighted  to  take  you  out." 

The  person  addressed  as  Jake  lowered  his  voice,  but 
not  so  low  that  the  avid  ears  of  Tidbury  Epps  missed 
a  syllable. 

"Between  you  and  me,  Spingle,"  said  Jake,  "I 
wouldn't  care  to  at  all." 

"Why,  Jake,"  expostulated  Mr.  Spingle,  "I  thought 
you  and  the  wife  always  liked  to  whoop  it  up  a  bit 
when  you  came  to  the  big  town." 

"So  we  do,"  admitted  Jake,  "but  not  with  him." 

"What's  wrong  with  Hydeman?"  demanded  the 
Napoleon  of  Hatdom,  and  Tidbury  read  anxiety  in  hia 
tone. 

"Everything,"  replied  Jake  succinctly. 

"You  know  him,  then  ?" 

"Yep,  ran  into  him  last  night  at  the  Pagan  Rout," 
said  Jake.  "He  didn't  make  much  of  a  hit  with  me 
or  the  missus.  Too  fresh.  Treated  us  as  if  we  were 
rubes.  Out  in  Kansas  City  we  know  a  good  fellow 
when  we  see  one Why,  what  the  devil " 

Jake  had  chopped  his  sentence  off  short,  and  with 
a  whoop  of  joy  had  bounded  across  the  room. 

"Well,  if  it  isn't  Terrible  Epps!"  he  bellowed 
heartily.  "How's  the  head,  old  sport  ?  Say,  Terrible, 
why  didn't  you  join  us  at  the  Pagan  Rout  ?" 

"I — I  couldn't  find  you  there,"  said  Tidbury, 
trembling. 


Terrible  Epps  235 

"Oh,  yes,"  remarked  Jake  thoughtfully.  "You  must 
have  got  there  after  they  put  us  out." 

"They  put  me  out  too,"  said  Tidbury. 

Jake's  roar  of  laughter  made  the  straw  hats  quiver  on 
the  heads  of  the  dummies  in  the  show  cases.  He  turned 
a  beaming  face  to  Mr.  Spingle. 

"Say,  Spingle,"  he  cried,  "what  do  you  mean  by  try- 
ing to  palm  off  a  tin-horn  like  Hydeman  on  me  when 
you've  got  the  best  little  fellow,  the  warmest  little  en- 
tertainer east  of  the  Mississippi,  right  here?" 

To  this  Mr.  Spingle  was  totally  unable  to  make  any 
reply.  But  after  a  minute  his  brain  functioned  suffi- 
ciently for  him  to  say,  "About  that  order  of  yours, 
Jake " 

"Oh,"  said  Jake  reassuringly.  "I'll  talk  to  Terrible 
Epps  about  it  at  dinner  to-night." 

"And  to  think,"  repeated  Mr.  Spingle  for  the  third 
or  fourth  time  to  Mr.  Blatter,  "that  Tidbury  is  a  man- 
about-town  who  goes  to  Pagan  Routs  and  everything! 
You'll  give  him  Hydeman's  job,  won't  you,  Otto  ?" 

"I  already  have,"  said  Mr.  Blatter. 

"Good!"  exclaimed  the  Napoleon  of  Hatdom. 
"Didn't  I  always  say  that  Tidbury  Epps  was  a  live  one, 
underneath  ?" 

The  round  cheek  of  Martha  Ritter  was  in  immediate 
contact  with  the  pepper-and-salt  shoulder  of  Tidbury 
Epps. 

"And  you  tried  to  make  me  think,"  he  repeated  in 
a  tone  of  wonder,  "that  you  liked  Hydeman  and  were 
going  to  the  Pagan  Rout  with  him  ?  Oh,  Martha  dear, 
why  did  you  do  it  ?" 

She  hid  her  eyes  from  his. 


236    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

"I  did  it,"  she  nmrxmired,  "because  I  wanted  to 
make  you  jealous." 

The  clock  ticked  many  ticks. 

"But,  Tidbury,  if  I  marry  you,"  she  said  anxiously, 
"you'll  reform,  won't  you?  You'll  promise  me  you'll 
give  up  Greenwich  Village  and  drinking,  won't  you, 
Tidbury?" 

"If  you'll  help  me,  dearest,"  promised  Tidbury 
Epps,  "I'll  try." 


XI:  Honor  Among  Sportsmen 


XI:  Honor  Among 
Sportsmen 

W~7J ACH  -with,  his  favorite  hunting  pig  on  a  stout 

fij  string,  a  band  of  the  leading  citizens  of  Mont- 

pont  moved  in   dignified  procession  down  the 

Rue   Victor   Hugo   in   the   direction   of  the   hunting 

preserve. 

It  was  a  mild,  delicious  Sunday,  cool  and  tranquil 
as  a  pool  in  a  woodland  glade.  To  Perigord  alone  come 
such  days.  Peace  was  in  the  air,  and  the  murmur  of 
voices  of  men  intent  on  a  mission  of  moment.  The 
men  of  Montpont  were  going  forth  to  hunt  truffles. 

As  Brillat-Savarin  points  out  in  his  "Physiology  of 
Taste" — "All  France  is  inordinately  truffliferous,  and 
the  province  of  Perigord  particularly  so."  On  week* 
days  the  hunting  of  that  succulent  subterranean  fungus 
was  a  business,  indeed,  a  vast  commercial  enterprise, 
for  were  there  not  thousands  of  Perigord  pies  to  be 
made,  and  uncounted  tins  of  pate  de  foie  gras  to  be 
given  the  last  exquisite  touch  by  the  addition  of  a  bit 
of  truffle  ? 

But  on  Sunday  it  became  a  sport,  the  chief,  the  only 
sport  of  the  citizens  of  Montpont.  A  preserve,  rich  in 
beech,  oak  and  chestnut  trees  in  whose  shade  the  shy 
truffle  thrives,  had  been  set  apart  and  here  the  truffle 
was  never  hunted  for  mercenary  motives  but  for  sport 
and  sport  alone.  On  week-days  truffle  hunting  was 

239 


240    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

confined  to  professionals;  on  Sunday,  after  church,  all 
Montpont  hunted  truffles.  Even  the  sub-prefect  main- 
tained a  stable  of  notable  pigs  for  the  purpose.  For 
the  pig  is  as  necessary  to  truffle-hunting  as  the  beagle 
is  to  beagling. 

A  pig,  by  dint  of  patient  training,  can  be  taught  to 
scent  the  buried  truffle  with  his  sensitive  snout,  and  to 
point  to  its  hiding  place,  as  immobile  as  a  cast-iron 
setter  on  a  profiteer's  lawn,  until  its  proud  owner  ex- 
humes the  prize.  An  experienced  pointing  pig,  with 
a  creditable  record,  brings  an  enormous  price  in  the 
markets  of  Montpont. 

At  the  head  of  the  procession  that  kindly  Sunday 
marched  Monsieur  Bonticu  and  Monsieur  Pantan,  with 
the  decisive  but  leisurely  tread  of  men  of  affairs.  They 
spoke  to  each  other  with  an  elaborate,  ceremonial  po- 
liteness, for  on  this  day,  at  least,  they  were  rivals.  On 
other  days  they  were  bosom  friends.  To-day  was  the 
last  of  the  fall  hunting  season,  and  they  were  tied, 
with  a  score  of  some  two  hundred  truffles  each,  for  the 
championship  of  Montpont,  an  honor  beside  which 
winning  the  Derby  is  nothing  and  the  Grand  Prix  de 
Home  a  mere  bauble  in  the  eyes  of  all  Perigord.  To- 
day was  to  tell  whether  the  laurels  would  rest  on  the 
round  pink  brow  of  Monsieur  Bonticu  or  the  oval  olive 
brow  of  Monsieur  Pantan. 

Monsieur  Bonticu  was  the  leading  undertaker  of 
Montpont,  and  in  his  stately  appearance  he  satisfied  the 
traditions  of  his  calling.  He  was  a  large  man  of  forty 
or  so,  and  in  his  special  hunting  suit  of  jade-hued  cloth 
he  looked,  from  a  distance,  to  be  an  enormous  green 
pepper.  His  face  was  vast  and  many  chinned  and  his 
eyes  had  been  set  at  the  bottom  of  wells  sunk  deep  in 
Lis  pink  face;  it  was  said  that  even  on  a  bright  noon 


Honor  Among  Sportsmen      241 

he  could  see  the  stars,  as  ordinary  folk  can  by  peering 
up  from  the  bottom  of  a  mine-shaft  They  were  small 
and  cunning,  his  eyes,  and  a  little  diffident.  In  Mont- 
pont,  he  was  popular.  Even  had  his  heart  not  been  as 
large  as  it  undoubtedly  was,  his  prowess  as  a  hunter 
of  truffles  and  his  complete  devotion  to  that  art — he 
insisted  it  was  an  art — would  have  endeared  him  to  all 
right-thinking  Montpontians.  He  was  a  bachelor,  and 
said,  more  than  once,  as  he  sipped  his  old  Anjou  in  the 
Cafe  de  1'TJnivers,  "I  marry?  Bonticu  marry?  That 
is  a  cause  of  laughter,  my  friends.  I  have  my  little 
house,  a  good  cook,  and  my  Anastasie.  What  more 
could  mortal  ask?  Certainly  not  an  Eve  in  his  para- 
dise. I  many?  I  be  dad  to  a  collection  of  squealing, 
wiggling  cabbages?  I  laugh  at  the  idea." 

Anastasie  was  his  pig,  a  prodigy  at  detecting  truffles, 
and  his  most  priceless  treasure.  He  once  said,  at  a 
truffle-hunters'  dinner,  "I  have  but  two  passions,  my 
comrades.  The  pursuit  of  the  truffle  and  the  flight  from 
the  female." 

Monsieur  Pantan  had  applauded  this  sentiment 
heartily.  He,  too,  was  a  bachelor.  He  combined, 
lucratively,  the  offices  of  town  veterinarian  and  apothe- 
cary, and  had  written  an  authoritative  book,  "The 
Science  of  Truffle  Hunting."  To  him  it  was  a  science, 
the  first  of  sciences.  He  was  a  fierce-looking  little 
man,  with  bellicose  eyes  and  bristling  moustachio,  and 
quick,  nervous  hands  that  always  seemed  to  be  rolling 
endless  thousands  of  pills.  He  was  given  to  fits  of 
temper,  but  that  is  rather  expected  of  a  man  in  the 
south  of  France.  His  devotion  to  his  pig,  Clotilde, 
atoned,  in  the  eyes  of  Montpont,  for  a  slightly  irascible 
nature. 

The  party,  by  now,  had  reached  the  hunting  pre- 


242    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

serve,  and  with  eager,  serious  faces,  they  lengthened 
the  leashes  on  their  pigs,  and  urged  them  to  their  task. 
By  the  laws  of  the  chase,  the  choicest  area  had  been 
left  for  Monsieur  Bonticu  and  Monsieur  Pantan,  and 
excited  galleries  followed  each  of  the  two  leading  con- 
testants. Bets  were  freely  made. 

In  a  scant  nine  minutes  by  the  watch,  Anastasie  was 
seen  to  freeze  and  point.  Monsieur  Bonticu  plunged 
to  his  plump  knees,  whipped  out  his  trowel,  dug  like 
a  badger,  and  in  another  minute  brought  to  light  a 
handsome  truffle,  the  size  of  a  small  potato,  blackish- 
gray  as  the  best  truffles  are,  and  studded  with  warts. 
With  a  gesture  of  triumph,  he  exhibited  it  to  the  um- 
pire, and  popped  it  into  his  bag.  He  rewarded  Anas- 
tasie with  a  bit  of  cheese,  and  urged  her  to  new  con- 
quests. But  a  few  seconds  later,  Monsieur  Pantan 
gave  a  short  hop,  skip  and  jump,  and  all  eyes  were 
fastened  on  Clotilde,  who  had  grown  motionless,  save 
for  the  tip  of  her  snout  which  quivered  gently.  Mon- 
sieur Pantan  dug  feverishly  and  soon  brandished  aloft  a 
well-developed  truffle.  So  the  battle  waged. 

At  one  time,  by  a  series  of  successes,  Monsieur  Bon- 
ticu was  three  up  on  his  rival,  but  Clotilde,  by  a  bit 
of  brilliant  work  beneath  a  chestnut  tree,  brought  to 
light  a  nest  of  four  truffles  and  sent  the  Pantan  colors 
to  the  van. 

The  sun  was  setting;  time  was  nearly  up.  The  other 
hunters  had  long  since  stopped  and  were  clustered 
about  the  two  chief  contestants,  who,  pale  but  collected, 
bent  all  their  skill  to  the  hunt.  Practically  every  square 
inch  of  ground  had  been  covered.  But  one  propitious 
spot  remained,  the  shadow  of  a  giant  oak,  and,  moved 
by  a  common  impulse,  the  stout  Bonticu  and  the  slender 


Honor  Among  Sportsmen      243 

Pantan  simultaneously  directed  their  pigs  toward  it 
But  a  Irttle  minute  of  time  now  remained.  The  gallery 
held  its  breath.  Then  a  great  shout  made  the  leaves 
shake  and  rustle.  Like  two  perfectly  synchronized 
machines,  Anastasie  and  Clotilde  had  frozen  and  were 
pointing.  They  were  pointing  to  the  same  spot. 

Monsieur  Pantan,  more  active  than  his  rival,  had 
darted  to  his  knees,  his  trowel  poised  for  action.  But 
a  large  hand  was  laid  on  his  shoulder,  politely,  and  the 
silky  voice  of  Monsieur  Bonticu  said,  "If  Monsieur 
will  pardon  me,  may  I  have  the  honor  of  informing  him 
that  this  is  my  find  ?" 

Monsieur  Pantan,  trowel  in  mid-air,  bowed  as  best 
a  kneeling  man  can. 

"I  trust,"  he  said,  coolly,  "that  Monsieur  will  not 
consider  it  an  impertinence  if  I  continue  to  dig  up 
what  my  Clotilde  has,  beyond  peradventure,  discovered, 
*  and  I  hope  Monsieur  will  not  take  it  amiss  if  I  suggest 
that  he  step  out  of  the  light  as  his*  shadow  is  not  exactly 
that  of  a  sapling." 

Monsieur  Bonticu  was  trembling,  but  controlled. 

"With  profoundest  respect,"  he  said  from  deep  in  his 
chest,  "I  beg  to  be  allowed  to  inform  Monsieur  that  he 
is,  if  I  may  say  so,  in  error.  I  must  ask  Monsieur, 
as  a  sportsman,  to  step  back  and  permit  me  to  take 
what  is  justly  mine." 

Monsieur  Pantan's  face  was  terrible  to  see,  but  his 
voice  was  icily  formal. 

"I  regret,"  he  said,  "that  I  cannot  admit  Monsieur's 
contention.  In  the  name  of  sport,  and  his  own  honor, 
I  call  upon  Monsieur  to  retire  from  his  position." 

"That,"  said  Monsieur  Bonticu,  "I  will  never  do." 

They  both  turned  faces  of  appeal  to  the  umpire. 
That  official  was  bewildered. 


244    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

"It  is  not  in  the  rules,  Messieurs,"  he  got  out,  con- 
fusedly. "In  my  forty  years  as  an  umpire,  such  a 
thing  has  not  happened.  It  is  a  matter  to  be  settled 
between  you,  personally." 

As  he  said  the  words,  Monsieur  Pantan  commenced 
to  dig  furiously.  Monsieur  Bonticu  dropped  to  his 
knees  and  also  dug,  like  some  great,  green,  panic- 
stricken  beaver.  Mounds  of  dirt  flew  np.  At  the  same 
second  they  spied  the  truffle,  a  monster  of  its  tribe. 
At  the  same  second  the  plump  fingers  of  Monsieur 
Bonticu  and  the  thin  fingers  of  Monsieur  Pantan  closed 
on  it.  Cries  of  dismay  rose  from  the  gallery. 

"It  is  the  largest  of  truffles,"  called  voices.  "Don't 
break  it.  Broken  ones  don't  count."  But  it  was  too 
late.  Monsieur  Bonticu  tugged  violently;  as  violently 
tugged  Monsieur  Pantan.  The  truffle,  indeed  a  giant 
of  its  species,  burst  asunder.  The  two  men  stood,  each 
with  his  half,  each  glaring. 

"I  trust,"  said  Monsieur  Bonticu,  in  his  hollowest 
death-room  voice,  "that  Monsieur  is  satisfied.  I  have 
my  opinion  of  Monsieur  as  a  sportsman,  a  gentleman 
and  a  Frenchman." 

"For  my  part,"  returned  Monsieur  Pantan,  with  "ris- 
ing passion,  "it  is  impossible  for  me  to  consider  Mon- 
sieur as  any  of  the  three." 

"What's  that  you  say  ?"  cried  Monsieur  Bonticu,  his 
big  face  suddenly  flamingly  red. 

"Monsieur,  in  addition  to  the  defects  in  his  sense  of 
honor  is  not  also  deficient  in  his  sense  of  hearing," 
returned  the  smoldering  Pantan. 

"Monsieur  is  insulting." 

"That  is  his  hope." 

Monsieur  Bonticu  was  aflame  with  a  great,  seething 
wrath,  but  he  had  sufficient  control  of  his  sense  of 


Honor  Among  Sportsmen      245 

insult  to  jerk  at  the  leash  of  Anastasie  and  say,  in  a 
tone  all  Montpont  could  hear: 

"Come,  Anastasie.  I  once  did  Monsieur  Pantan  the 
honor  of  considering  him  your  equal.  I  must  revise  my 
estimate.  He  is  not  your  sort  of  pig  at  all." 

Monsieur  Pantan's  eyes  were  blazing  dangerously, 
but  he  retained  a  slipping  grip  on  his  emotions  long 
enough  to  say: 

"Come,  Clotilde.  Do  not  demean  yourself  by  breath- 
ing the  same  air  as  Monsieur  and  Madame  Bonticu." 

The  eyes  of  Monsieur  Bonticu,  ordinarily  so  peace- 
ful, now  shot  forth  sparks.  Turning  a  livid  face  to  his 
antagonist,  he  cried  aloud: 

"Monsieur  Pantan,  in  my  opinion  you  are  a  puff- 
ball!" 

This  was  too  much.  For  to  call  a  truffle-hunter  a 
puff-ball  is  to  call  him  a  thing  unspeakably  vila  In  the 
eyes  of  a  true  lover  of  truffles  a  ptuff-ball  is  a  noisome, 
obscene  thing ;  it  is  a  false  truffle.  In  truffledom  it  is  a 
fighting  word.  With  a  scream  of  rage  Monsieur  Pantan 
advanced  on  the  bulky  Bonticu. 

"By  the  thumbs  of  St.  Front,"  he  cried,  "you  shall 
pay  for  that,  Monsieur  Aristide  Gontran  Louis  Bonticu. 
Here  and  now,  before  all  Montpont,  before  all  Perigord, 
before  all  France,  I  challenge  you  to  a  duel  to  the 
death." 

Words  rattled  and  jostled  in  his  throat,  so  great  was 
bis  anger.  Monsieur  Bonticu  stood  motionless;  his  full- 
moon  face  had  gone  white;  the  half  of  truffle  slipped 
from  his  fingers.  For  he  knew,  as  they  all  knew,  that 
the  dueling -code  of  Perigord  is  inexorable.  It  is  sel- 
dom nowadays  that  the  Perigordians,  even  in  their  hot- 
test moments,  say  the  fighting  word,  for  once  a  challenge 
lias  passed,  retirement  is  impossible,  and  a  duel  is  a 


246    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

most  serious  matter.  By  rigid  rule,  the  challenger  and 
challenged  must  meet  at  daybreak  in  mortal  combat. 
At  twenty  paces  they  much  each  discharge  two  horse- 
pistols  ;  then  they  must  close  on  each  other  with  sabers ; 
should  these  fail  to  settle  the  issue,  each  man  is  pro- 
vided with  a  poniard  for  the  most  intimate  stages  of 
the  combat.  Such  duels  are  seldom  bloodless.  Mon- 
sieur Bonticu's  lips  formed  some  syllables.  They  were : 

"You  are  aware  of  the  consequences  of  your  words, 
Monsieur  Pantan  ?" 

"Perfectly." 

"You  do  not  wish  to  withdraw  them  ?"  Monsieur  Bon- 
ticu  despite  himself  injected  a  hopeful  note  into  his 
query. 

"I  withdraw  ?  Never  in  this  life.  On  the  contrary, 
not  only  do  I  not  withdraw,  I  reiterate,"  bridled  Mon- 
sieur Pantan. 

In  a  requiescat  in  pace  voice,  Monsieur  Bonticu 
said: 

"So  be  it.  You  have  sealed  your  own  doom,  Mon- 
sieur. I  shall  prepare  to  attend  you  first  in  the  capacity 
of  an  opponent,  and  shortly  thereafter  in  my  profes- 
sional capacity." 

Monsieur  Pantan  sneered  openly. 

"Monsieur  the  undertaker  had  better  consider  in  his 
remaining  hours  whether  it  is  feasible  to  embalm  him- 
self or  have  a  stranger  do  it." 

With  this  thunderbolt  of  defiance,  the  little  man 
turned  on  his  heel,  and  stumped  from  the  field. 

Monsieur  Bonticu  followed  at  last.  But  he  walked 
as  one  whose  knees  have  turned  to  meringue  glace.  He 
went  slowly  to  his  little  shop  and  sat  down  among  the 
coffins.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  their  presence 
made  him  uneasy.  A  big  new  one  had  just  come  from 


Honor  Among  Sportsmen       247 

the  factory.  For  a  long  time  he  gazed  at  it;  then  he 
surveyed  his  own  full-blown  physique  with  a  measur- 
ing eye.  He  shuddered.  The  light  fell  on  the  silver 
plate  on  the  lid,  and  his  eyes  seemed  to  see  engraved 
there : 

MONSIEUR  ARISTTDE  GONTBAN  Louis  BONTICTT 

Died  in  the  forty-first  year  of  his  life  on  the  field  of  honor. 

"He  was  without  peer  as  a  hunter  of  truffles" 

MAY  HE  BEST   IN  PEACE. 

With  almost  a  smile,  he  reflected  that  this  inscrip- 
tion would  make  Monsieur  Pantan  very  angry;  yes, 
lie  would  insist  on  it.  He  looked  down  at  his  fat  fists 
and  sighed  profoundly,  and  shook  his  big  head.  They 
had  never  pulled  a  trigger  or  gripped  a  sword-hilt;  the 
knife,  the  peaceful  table  knife,  the  fork,  and  the  leash 
of  Anastasie — those  had  occupied  them.  Anastasie !  A 
globular  tear  rose  slowly  from  the  wells  in  which  his 
eyes  were  set,  and  unchecked,  wandered  gently  down  the 
folds  of  his  face.  Who  would  care  for  Anastasie? 
With  another  sigh  that  seemed  to  start  in  the  caverns 
of  his  soul,  he  reached  out  and  took  a  dusty  book  from 
a  case,  and  bent  over  it.  It  contained  the  time-hon- 
ored dueling  code  of  ancient  Perigord.  Suddenly,  as 
he  read,  his  eyes  brightened,  and  he  ceased  to  sigh.  He 
snapped  the  book  shut,  took  from  a  peg  his  best  hat, 
dusted  it  with  his  elbow,  and  stepped  out  into  the  starry 
Perigord  night. 

At  high  noon,  three  days  later,  as  duly  decreed  by  the 
dueling  code,  Monsieur  Pantan,  in  full  evening  dress, 


248    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

appeared  at  the  shop  of  Monsieur  Bonticu,  accompanied 
by  two  solemn-visaged  seconds,  to  make  final  arrange- 
ments for  the  affair  of  honor.  They  found  Monsieur 
Bonticu  sitting  comfortably  among  his  coffins.  He 
greeted  them  with  a  serene  smile.  Monsieur  Pantan 
frowned  portentously. 

"We  have  come,"  announced  the  chief  second,  Mon- 
sieur Duff  on,  the  town  butcher,  "as  the  representatives 
of  this  grossly  insulted  gentleman  to  demand  satisfac- 
tion. The  weapons  and  conditions  are,  of  course,  fixed 
by  the  code.  It  remains  only  to  set  the  date.  Would 
Friday  at  dawn  in  the  truffle  preserve  be  entirely  con- 
venient for  Monsieur?" 

Monsieur  Bonticu's  shrug  contained  more  regret  than 
a  hundred  words  could  convey. 

"Alas,  it  will  be  impossible,  Messieurs,"  he  said,  witH 
a  deep  bow. 

"Impossible?" 

"But  yes.  I  assure  Messieurs  that  nothing  would 
give  me  more  exquisite  pleasure  than  to  grant  this  gen- 
tleman"— he  stressed  this  word — "the  satisfaction  that 
his  honor" — he  also  stressed  this  word — "appears  to 
demand.  However,  it  is  impossible." 

The  seconds  and  Monsieur  Pantan  looked  at  Mon- 
sieur Bonticu  and  at  each  other. 

"But  this  is  monstrous,"  exclaimed  the  chief  second. 
"Is  it  that  Monsieur  refuses  to  fight  ?" 

Monsieur  Bonticu's  slowly  shaken  head  indicated 
most  poignant  regret 

"But  no,  Messieurs,"  he  said.  "I  do  not  refuse.  Is 
it  not  a  question  of  honor?  Am  I  not  a  sportsman? 
But,  alas,  I  am  forbidden  to  fight." 

"Forbidden." 

"Alas,  yes." 


Honor  Among  Sportsmen       249 

"But  why?" 

"Because,"  said  Monsieur  Bonticu,  "I  am  a  mar- 
ried man." 

The  eyes  of  the  three  men  widened;  they  appeared 
stunned  by  surprise.  Monsieur  Pantan  spoke  first. 

"You  married?"  he  demanded. 

"But  certainly." 

"When?" 

"Only  yesterday." 

"To  -whom?    I  demand  proof." 

"To  Madame  Aubison  of  Barbaste." 

"The  widow  of  Sergeant  Aubison?" 

"The  same." 

"I  do  not  believe  it,"  declared  Monsieur  Pantan. 

Monsieur  Bonticu  smiled,  raised  his  voice  and  called. 

"Angelique!  Angelique,  my  dove.  Will  you  come 
here  a  little  moment?" 

"What?  And  leave  the  lentil  soup  to  burn?"  came 
an  undoubtedly  feminine  voice  from  the  depths  of  the 
house. 

"Yes,  my  treasure." 

"What  a  pest  you  are,  Aristide,"  said  the  voice,  and 
its  owner,  an  ample  woman  of  perhaps  thirty,  appeared 
in  the  doorway.  Monsieur  Bonticu  waved  a  fat  hand 
toward  her. 

"My  wife,  Messieurs,"  he  said. 

She  bowed  stiffly.  The  three  men  bowed.  They  said 
nothing.  They  gaped  at  her.  She  spoke  to  her  hus- 
band. 

"Is  it  that  you  take  me  for  a  Punch  and  Judy  show, 
Aristide?" 

"Ah,  never,  my  rosebud,"  cried  Monsieur  Bonticu, 
with  a  placating  smile.  "You  see,  my  own,  these  gen- 
tlemen wished " 


250    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

"There!"  she  interrupted.  "The  lentil  soup!  It 
burns."  She  hurried  back  to  the  kitchen. 

The  three  men — Monsieur  Pantan  and  his  seconds — 
consulted  together. 

"Beyond  question,"  said  Monsieur  Duffon,  "Mon- 
sieur Bonticu  cannot  accept  the  challenge.  He  is  mar- 
ried; you  are  not.  The  code  says  plainly:  'Opponents 
must  be  on  terms  of  absolute  equality  in  family  respon- 
sibility.' Thus,  a  single  man  cannot  fight  a  married 
one,  and  so  forth.  See.  Here  it  is  in  black  and 
white." 

Monsieur  Pantan  was  boiling  as  he  faced  the  calm 
Bonticu. 

"To  think,"  stormed  the  little  man,  "that  truffles 
may  be  hunted — yes,  even  eaten,  by  such  a  man!  I 
see  through  you,  Monsieur.  But  think  not  that  a  Pan- 
tan  can  be  flouted.  I  have  my  opinion  of  you,  Mon- 
sieur the  undertaker." 

Monsieur  Bonticu  shrugged. 

"Your  opinions  do  not  interest  me,"  he  said,  "and 
only  my  devotion  to  the  .cause  of  free  speech  makes  me 
concede  that  you  are  entitled  to  an  opinion  at  all. 
Good  morning,  Messieurs,  .good  morning."  He  bowed 
them  down  a  lane  of  caskets  and  out  into  the  afternoon 
sunshine.  The  face  of  Monsieur  Pantan  was  black. 

Time  went  by  in  Perigord.  Other  truffle-hunting 
seasons  came  and  went,  but  Messieurs  Bonticu  and  Pan- 
tan  entered  no  more  competitions.  They  hunted,  of 
course,  the  one  with  Anastasie,  the  other  with  Clotilde, 
but  they  hunted  in  solitary  state,  and  studiously  avoided 
each  other.  Then  one  day  Monsieur  Pantan's  hairy 
countenance,  stern  and  determined,  appeared  like  a 
genie  at  the  door  of  Monsieur  Bonticu's  shop.  The 
rivals  exchanged  profound  bows. 


Honor  Among  Sportsmen       251 

"I  have  the  honor,"  said  Monsieur  Pantan,  in  his 
most  formal  manner,  "to  announce  to  Monsieur  that  the 
impediment  to  our  meeting  on  the  field  of  honor  has 
been  at  last  removed,  and  that  I  am  now  in  a  position 
to  send  my  seconds  to  him  to  arrange  that  meeting. 
May  they  call  to-morrow  at  high  noon?" 

"I  do  not  understand,"  said  Monsieur  Bonticu,  arch- 
ing his  eyebrows.  "I  am  still  married." 

"I  too,"  said  Monsieur  Pantan,  with  a  grim  smile, 
"am  married." 

"You  ?    Pantan  ?    Monsieur  jests." 

"If  Monsieur  will  look  in  the  newspaper  of  to-day," 
said  Monsieur  Pantan,  dryly,  "he  will  see  an  announce- 
ment of  my  marriage  yesterday  to  Madame  Marselet  of 
Pergieux." 

There  was  astonishment  and  alarm  in  the  face  of  the 
undertaker.  Then  reverie  seemed  to  wrap  him  round. 
The  scurrying  of  footsteps,  the  bumble  of  voices,  in  the 
rooms  over  the  shop  aroused  him.  His  face  was  tran- 
quil again  as  he  spoke. 

"Will  Monsieur  and  his  seconds  do  me  the  honor  of 
calling  on  me  day  after  to-morrow  ?"  he  asked. 

"As  you  wish,"  replied  Monsieur  Pantan,  a  .gleam  of 
satisfaction  in  his  eye. 

Punctual  to  the  second,  Monsieur  'Pantan  and  his 
friends  presented  themselves  at  the  shopi  of  Monsieur 
Bonticu.  His  face,  they  observed,  was  first  worried, 
then  smiling,  then  worried  again. 

"Will  to-morrow  at  dawn  be  convenient  for  Mon- 
sieur ?"  inquired  the  butcher,  Duffon. 

Monsieur  Bonticu  gestured  regret  with  his  shoul- 
ders, and  said : 

"I  am  desolated  with  chagrin,  Messieurs,  believe  me, 
but  it  is  impossible." 


252    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

"Impossible.  It  cannot  be,"  cried  Monsieur  Pan- 
tan.  "Monsieur  has  one  wife.  I  have  one  wife.  Our 
responsibilities  are  equal.  Is  it  that  Monsieur  is  pre- 
pared to  swallow  his  word  of  insult  ?" 

"Never,"  declared  Monsieur  Bonticu.  "I  yearn  to 
encounter  Monsieur  in  mortal  combat.  But,  alas,  it  is 
not  I,  but  Nature  that  intervenes.  I  have,  only  this 
morning,  become  a  father,  Messieurs." 

As  if  in  confirmation  there  came  from  the  room 
above  the  treble  wail  of  a  new  infant. 

"Behold !"  exclaimed  Monsieur  Bonticu,  with  a  wave 
of  his  hand. 

Monsieur  Pantan's  face  was  purple. 

"This  is  too  much,"  he  raged.  "But  wait,  Monsieur. 
But  wait."  He  clapped  his  high  hat  on  his  head  and 
stamped  out  of  the  sHop. 

Truffles  were  hunted  and  the  days  flowed  by  and  Mon- 
sieur Pantan  and  his  seconds  one  high  noon  again  called 
upon  Monsieur  Bonticu,  who  greeted  them  urbanely, 
albeit  he  appeared  to  have  lost  weight  and  tiny  worry- 
wrinkles  were  visible  in  his  face. 

"Monsieur,"  began  the  chief  second,  "may  I  have  the 
honor " 

"I'll  speak  for  myself,"  interrupted  Monsieur  Pan- 
tan.  "With  my  own  voice  I  wish  to  inform  Monsieur 
that  nothing  can  .now  prevent  our  meeting,  at  dawn  to- 
morrow. To-day,  Monsieur  the  undertaker,  I,  too,  be- 
came a  father!" 

The  news  seemed  to  interest  but  not  to  stagger  Mon- 
sieur Bonticu.  His  smile  was  sad  as  he  said: 

"You  are  too  late,  Monsieur  the  apothecary  and  vet- 
erinarian. Two  days  ago  I,  also,  became  a  father 
again." 


Honor  Among  Sportsmen       253 

Monsieur  Pantan  appeared  to  be  about  to  burst,  so 
terrible  was  his  rage. 

"But  wait,"  lie  screamed,  "but  wait."  And  lie 
rushed  out. 

Next  day  Monsieur  Pantan  and  his  seconds  returned. 
The  moustachios  of  the  little  man  were  on  end  with  ex- 
citement and  his  eye  was  triumphant. 

"We  meet  to-morrow  at  daybreak,"  he  announced. 

"Ah,  that  it  were  possible,"  sighed  Monsieur  Bonticu. 
"But  the  code  forbids.  As  I  said  yesterday,  Monsieur 
has  a  wife  and  a  child,  while  I  have  a  wife  and  chil- 
dren. I  regret  our  inequality,  but  I  cannot  deny  it." 

"Spare  your  regrets,  Monsieur,"  rejoined  the  small 
man.  "I,  too,  have  two  children  now." 

"You?"  Monsieur  Bonticu  stared,  puzzled.  "Yes- 
terday you  had  but  one.  It  cannot  be,  Monsieur." 

"It  can  be,"  cried  Monsieur  Pantan.  "Yesterday  I 
adopted  one!" 

The  peony  face  of  Monsieur  Bonticu  did  not  blanch 
at  this  intelligence.  Again  he  smiled  with  an  infinite 
sadness. 

"I  appreciate,"  he  said,  "Monsieur  Pantan's  cour- 
tesy in  affording  me  this  opportunity,  but,  alas,  he  has 
not  been  in  possession  of  the  facts.  By  an  almost  unpar- 
donable oversight  I  neglected  to  inform  Monsieur  that 
I  had  become  the  father  not  of  one  child,  but  of  two. 
Twins,  Messieurs.  Would  you  care  to  inspect  them?" 

Monsieur  Pantan's  face  was  contorted  with  a  wrath 
shocking  to  witness.  He  bit  his  lip;  he  clenched  his 
fist. 

"The  end  is  not  yet,"  he  shouted.  "No,  no,  Mon- 
sieur. By  the  thumbs  of  St.  Front,  I  shall  adopt  an- 
other child." 


254    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

At  high  noon  next  day  three  men  in  grave  parade 
went  down  the  Rue  Victor  Hugo  and  entered  the  shop 
of  Monsieur  Bonticu.  Monsieur  Pantan  spoke. 

"The  adoption  has  been  made,"  he  announced.  "Here 
are  the  papers.  I,  too,  have  a  wife  and  three  children. 
Shall  we  meet  at  dawn  to-morrow  ?" 

Monsieur  Bonticu  looked  up  from  his  account  books 
with  a  rueful  smile. 

"Ah,  if  it  could  be,"  he  said.    "But  it  cannot  be." 

"It  cannot  be  ?"  echoed  Monsieur  Pantan. 

"!N"o,"  said  Monsieur  Bonticu,  sadly.  "Last  night 
my  aged  father-in-law  came  to  live  with  me.  He  is  a 
new,  and  weighty  responsibility,  Monsieur." 

Monsieur  Pantan  appeared  numbed  for  a  moment; 
then,  with  a  glare  of  concentrated  fury,  he  rasped. 

"I,  too,  have  an  aged  father-in-law." 

He  slammed  the  shop  door  after  him. 

That  night  when  Monsieur  Bonticu  went  to  the  im- 
maculate little  stye  back  of  his  shop  to  see  if  the  pride 
of  his  heart,  Anastasie,  was  comfortable,  to  chat  with 
her  a  moment,  and  to  present  her  with  a  morsel  of  truf- 
fle to  keep  up  her  interest  in  the  chase,  he  found  her 
lying  on  her  side  moaning  faintly.  Between  moans 
she  breathed  with  a  labored  wheeze,  and  in  her  gentle 
blue  eyes  stood  the  tears  of  suffering.  She  looked  up 
feebly,  piteously,  at  Monsieur  Bonticu.  With  a  cry 
of  horror  and  alarm  he  bent  over  her. 

"Anastasie!  My  Anastasie!  What  is  it?  What 
ails  my  brave  one?"  She  grunted  softly,  short,  stifled 
grunts  of  anguish.  He  made  a  swift  examination.  Ex- 
pert in  all  matters  pertaining  to  the  pig,  he  perceived 
that  she  had  contracted  an  acute  case  of  that  rare  and 
terrible  disease,  known  locally  as  Perigord  pip,  and  he 


Honor  Among  Sportsmen       255 

knew,  only  too  well,  that  her  demise  was  but  a  question 
of  hours.  His  Anastasie  would  never  track  down  an- 
other truffle  unless He  leaned  weakly  against  the 

wall  and  clasped  his  warm  brow.  There  was  but  one 
man  in  all  the  world  who  could  cure  her.  And  that  man 
was  Pantan,  the  veterinarian.  His  "Elixir  Pantan," 
a  secret  specific,  was  the  only  known  cure  for  the  dread 
malady. 

Pride  and  love  wrestled  within  the  torn  soul  of  the 
stricken  Bonticu.  To  humble  himself  before  his  rival 
— it  was  unthinkable.  He  could  see  the  sneer  on  Mon- 
sieur Pantan's  olive  face;  he  could  hear  his  cutting 
words  of  refusal.  The  dew  of  conflicting  emotions  dam- 
pened the  brow  of  Monsieur  Bonticu.  Anastasie  whim- 
pered in  pain.  He  could  not  stand  it.  He  struck  his 
chest  a  resounding  blow  of  decision.  He  reached  for  his 
hat. 

Monsieur  Bonticu  knocked  timidly  at  the  door  of  the 
apothecary-veterinarian's  house.  A  head  appeared  at 
a  window. 

"Who  is  it?"  demanded  a  shrill,  cross,  female 
voice. 

"It  is  I.  Bonticu.  I  wish  to  speak  with  Monsieur 
Pantan." 

"!N"ice  time  to  come,"  complained  the  lady.  She 
shouted  into  the  darkness  of  the  room :  "Pantan !  Pan- 
tan,  you  sleepy  lout.  Wake  up.  There's  a  great  oaf 
of  a  man  outside  wanting  to  speak  to  you." 

"Patience,  my  dear  Rosalie,  patience,"  came  the  voice 
of  Monsieur  Pantan;  it  was  strangely  meek.  Pres- 
ently the  head  of  Monsieur  Pantan,  all  nightcap  and 
moustachios,  was  protruded  from  the  window. 

"You  have  come  to  fight  ?"  he  asked. 

"But  no." 


256    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

"Bah!     Then  why  wake  me  up  this  cold  night?" 

"It  is  a  family  matter,  Monsieur,"  said  the  shivering 
Bonticu.  "A  matter  the  most  pressing." 

"Is  it  that  Monsieur  has  adopted  an  orphanage,"  in- 
quired Pantan.  "Or  brought  nine  old  aunts  to  live  with 
him?" 

"!Nb,  no,  Monsieur.  It  is  most  serious.  It  is  Anas- 
tasie.  She — is — dying." 

"A  thousand  regrets,  but  I  cannot  act  as  pall-bearer," 
returned  Monsieur  Pantan,  preparing  to  shut  the  win- 
dow. "Good-night." 

"I  beg  Monsieur  to  attend  a  little  second,"  cried  Mon- 
sieur Bonticu.  "You  can  save  her." 

"I  save  her?"  Monsieur  Pantan's  tone  suggested 
that  the  idea  was  deliciously  absurd. 

"Yes,  yes,  yes,"  cried  Bonticu,  catching  at  a  straw. 
"You  alone.  She  has  the  Perigord  pip,  Monsieur." 

"Ah,  indeed." 

"Yes,  one  cannot  doubt  it." 

"Most  amusing." 

"You  are  cruel,  Monsieur,"  cried  Bonticu.  "She  suf- 
fers, ah,  how  she  suffers." 

"She  will  not  suffer  long,"  said  Pantan,  coldly. 

There  was  a  sob  in  Bonticu's  voice  as  he  said: 

"I  entreat  Monsieur  to  save  her.  I  entreat  him  as  a 
sportsman." 

In  the  window  Monsieur  Pantan  seemed  to  be  think- 
ing deeply. 

"I  entreat  him  as  a  doctor.  The  ethics  of  his  pro- 
fession demand " 

"You  have  used  me  abominably,  Monsieur,"  came  the 
voice  of  Pantan,  "but  when  you  appeal  to  me  as  a  sports- 
man and  a  doctor  I  cannot  refuse.  Wait." 

The  window  banged  down  and  in  a  second  or  so  Mon- 


Honor  Among  Sportsmen       257 

sieur  Pantan,  in  hastily  donned  attire,  joined  his  rival 
and  silently  they  walked  through  the  night  to  the  bed- 
side of  the  dying  Anastasie.  Once  there,  Monsieur  Pan- 
tan's  manner  became  professional,  intense,  impersonal. 

"Warm  water.     Buckets  of  it,"  he  ordered. 

"Yes,  Monsieur." 

"Olive  oil  and  cotton." 

"Yes,  Monsieur." 

With  trembling  hands  Monsieur  Bonticu  brought  the 
things  desired,  and  hovered  about,  speaking  gently  to 
Anastasie,  calling  her  pet  names,  soothing  her.  The 
apothecary-veterinarian  was  busy.  He  forced  the  con- 
tents of  a  huge  black  bottle  down  her  throat.  He 
anointed  her  with  oil,  water  and  unknown  substances. 
He  ordered  his  rival  about  briskly. 

"Eub  her  belly." 

Bonticu  rubbed  violently. 

"Pull  her  tail." 

Bonticu  pulled. 

"Massage  her  limbs." 

Bonticu  massaged  till  he  was  gasping  for  breath. 

The  light  began  to  come  back  to  the  eyes  of  Anas- 
tasie, the  rose  hue  to  her  pale  snout ;  she  stopped  whim- 
pering. Monsieur  Pantan  rose  with  a  smile. 

"The  crisis  is  passed,"  he  announced.  "She  will 
live.  What  in  the  name  of  all  the  devils— 

This  last  ejaculation  was  blurred  and  smothered,  for 
the  overjoyed  Bonticu,  with  the  impulsiveness  of  his 
warm  Southern  nature,  had  thrown  his  arms  about  the 
little  man  and  planted  loud  kisses  on  both  hairy  cheeks. 
They  stood  facing  each  other,  oddly  shy. 

"If  Monsieur  would  do  me  the  honor,"  began  Mon- 
sieur Bonticu,  a  little  thickly,  "I  have  some  ancient 


258    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

port.  A  glass  or  two  after  that  walk  in  the  cold  would 
be  good  for  Monsieur,  perhaps." 

"If  Monsieur  insists,"  murmured  Pantan. 

Monsieur  Bonticu  vanished  and  reappeared  with  a 
eob-wehhed  bottle.  They  drank.  Pantan  smacked  his 
lips.  Timidly,  Monsieur  Bonticu  said: 

"I  can  never  sufficiently  repay  Monsieur  for  his 
kindness." 

He  glanced  at  Anastasie  who  slept  tranquilly.  "She 
is  very  dear  to  me." 

"Do  I  not  know  ?"  replied  Monsieur  Pantan.  "Have 
I  not  Clotilde?" 

"I  trust  she  is  in  excellent  health,  Monsieur." 

"She  was  never  better,"  replied  Monsieur  Pantan. 
He  finished  his  glass,  and  it  was  promptly  refilled. 
Only  the  sound  of  Anastasie' s  regular  breathing  could 
be  heard.  Monsieur  Pantan  put  down  his  glass.  In  a 
manner  that  tried  to  be  casual  he  remarked, 

"I  will  not  attempt  to  conceal  from  Monsieur  that 
his  devotion  to  his  Anastasie  has  touched  me.  Believe 
me,  Monsieur  Bonticu,  I  am  not  unaware  of  the  sacri- 
fice you  made  in  coming  to  me  for  her  sake." 

Monsieur  Bonticu,  deeply  moved,  bowed. 

"Monsieur  would  have  done  the  same  for  his  Clo- 
tilde," he  said.  "Monsieur  has  demonstrated  himself 
to  be  a  thorough  sportsman.  I  am  grateful  to  him. 
I'd  have  missed  Anastasie." 

"But  naturally." 

"Ah,  yes,"  went  on  Monsieur  Bonticu.  "When  my 
wife  scolds  and  the  children  scream,  it  is  to  her  I  go 
for  a  little  talk.  She  never  argues." 

Monsieur  Pantan  looked  up  from  a  long  draught. 

"Does  your  wife  scold  and  your  children  scream?" 
he  asked. 


Honor  Among  Sportsmen       259 

"Alas,  but  too  often,"  answered  Monsieur  Bonticu. 

"You  should  hear  my  Rosalie,"  sighed  Monsieur 
Pantan.  "I  too  seek  consolation  as  you  do.  I  talk 
with  my  Clotilde." 

Monsieur  Bonticu  nodded,  sympathetically. 

"My  wife  is  always  nagging  me  for  more  money," 
he  said  with  a  sudden  burst  of  confidence.  "And  the 
undertaking  business,  my  dear  Pantan,  is  not  what  it 
was." 

"Do  I  not  know?"  said  Pantan.  "When  folks  are 
well  we  both  suffer." 

"I  stagger  beneath  my  load,"  sighed  Bonticu. 

"My  load  is  no  less  light,"  remarked  Pantan. 

"If  my  family  responsibilities  should  increase,  ob- 
served Bonticu,  "it  would  be  little  short  of  a  calamity." 

"If  mine  did,"  said  Pantan,  "it  would  be  a  tragedy." 

"And  yet,"  mused  Bonticu,  "our  responsibilities  seem 
to  go  on  increasing." 

"Alas,  it  is  but  too  true." 

"The  statesmen  are  talking  of  limiting  armaments," 
remarked  Bonticu. 

"An  excellent  idea,"  said  Pantan,  warmly. 

"Can  it  be  that  they  are  more  astute  than  two  vet- 
eran truffle-hunters  ?" 

"They  could  not  possibly  be,  my  dear  Bonticu." 

There  was  a  pregnant  pause.  Monsieur  Bonticu 
broke  the  silence. 

"In  the  heat  of  the  chase,"  he  said,  "one  does  things 
and  says  things  one  afterwards  regrets." 

"Yes.     That  is  true." 

"In  his  excitement  one  might  even  so  far  forget  him- 
self as  to  call  a  fellow  sportsman — a  really  excellent 
fellow— a  puffball." 

"That  is  true.     One  might." 


260    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

Suddenly  Monsieur  Bonticu  thrust  his  fat  hand 
toward  Monsieur  Pantan. 

"You  are  not  a  puffball,  Armand,"  he  said.  "You 
never  were  a  puffball !" 

Tears  leaped  to  the  little  man's  eyes.  He  seized  the 
extended  hand  in  both  of  his  and  pressed  it. 

"Aristide !"  was  all  he  could  say.     "Aristide !" 

"We  shall  drink,"  cried  Bonticu,  "to  the  art  of 
truffle-hunting. " 

"The  science — "  corrected  Pantan,  gently. 

"To  the  art-science  of  truffle-hunting,"  cried  Bonticu, 
raising  his  glass. 

The  moon  smiled  down  on  Perigord.  On  the  ancient, 
twisted  streets  of  Montpont  it  smiled  with  particular 
brightness.  Down  the  Rue  Victor  Hugo,  in  the  middle 
of  the  street,  went  two  men,  a  very  stout  big  man  and 
a  very  thin  little  man,  arm  in  arm,  and  singing,  for 
all  Montpont,  and  all  the  world,  to  hear,  a  snatch  of  an 
old  song  from  some  forgotten  revue. 

"Oh,  Gaby,  darling  Gaby. 

Bam!  Bam,!  Bam! 
Why  don't  you  come  to  me? 

Bam,!  Bam!  Bam! 

And  jump  in  the  arms  of  your  own  true  love, 
While  the  wind  blows  chilly  and  cold? 

Bam!  Bam!  Bam!" 


XII:  The  $25,000  Jaw 


XII:  The  $25,000  Jaw 


thirsty  this  morning,  eh,  Mr.  Ad- 
dicks  ?"  inquired  Cowdin,  the  chief  purchasing 
agent.  The  "Mister"  was  said  with  a  long, 
hissing  "s"  and  was  distinctly  not  meant  as  a  title  of 
respect. 

Cowdin,  as  he  spoke,  rested  his  two  square  hairy 
hands  on  Croly  Addicks'  desk,  and  this  enabled  him  to 
lean  forward  and  thrust  his  well-razored  knob  of  blue- 
black  jaw  within  a  few  inches  of  Croly  Addicks'  face. 

"Too  bad,  Mr.  Addicks,  too  bad,"  said  Cowdin  in  a 
high,  sharp  voice.  "Do  you  realize,  Mr.  Addicks,  that 
every  time  you  go  up  to  the  water  cooler  you  waste 
fifteen  seconds  of  the  firm's  time?'  I  might  use  a 
stronger  word  than  'waste,'  but  I'll  spare  your  delicate 
feelings.  Do  you  think  you  can  control  your  thirst 
until  you  take  your  lunch  at  the  Waldorf-Astoria,  or 
shall  I  have  your  desk  piped  with  ice  water,  Mr. 
Addicks?" 

Croly  Addicks  drew  his  convex  face  as  far  away  aa 
he  could  from  the  concave  features  of  the  chief  pur- 
chasing agent  and  muttered,  "Had  kippered  herring 
for  breakfast." 

A  couple  of  the  stenographers  tittered.  Croly's  ears 
reddened  and  his  hands  played  nervously  with  his  blue- 
and  white  polka-dot  necktie.  Cowdin  eyed  him  for  a 
contemptuous  half  second,  then  rotated  on  his  rubber 
heel  and  prowled  back  to  his  big  desk  in  the  corner  of 
the  room. 

263 


264    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

Croly  Addicks,  inwardly  full  of  red  revolution,  out- 
wardly merely  flustered  and  intimidated,  rustled  among 
the  piles  of  invoices  and  forms  on  his  desk,  and  tried 
desperately  to  concentrate  on  his  task  as  assistant  to 
the  assistant  purchasing  agent  of  the  Pierian  Piano 
Company,  a  vast  far-flung  enterprise  that  boasted,  with 
only  slight  exaggeration,  "We  bring  melody  to  a  mil- 
lion homes."  He  hated  Cowdin  at  all  times,  and  par- 
ticularly when  he  called  him  "Mr.  Addicks."  That 
"Mister"  hurt  worse  than  a  slap  on  a  sunburned  shoul- 
der. What  made  the  hate  almost  beyond  bearing  was 
the  realization  on  Croly's  part  that  it  was  impotent. 

"Gawsh,"  murmured  the  blond  stenographer  from 
the  corner  of  her  mouth,  after  the  manner  of  convicts, 
"Old  Grizzly's  pickin'  on  the  chinless  wonder  again. 
I  don't  see  how  Croly  stands  it.  I  wouldn't  if  I  was 
him." 

"Aw,  wadda  yuh  expeck  of  Chinless?"  returned  the 
brunette  stenographer  disdainfully  as  she  crackled  paper 
to  conceal  her  breach  of  the  office  rules  against  conver- 
sation. "Feller  with  ingrown  jaws  was  made  to 
pick  on." 

At  noon  Croly  went  out  to  his  lunch,  not  to  the  big 
hotel,  as  Cowdin  had  suggested,  but  to  a  crowded  base- 
ment full  of  the  jangle  and  clatter  of  cutlery  and 
crockery,  and  the  smell  and  sputter  of  frying  liver. 
The  name  of  this  cave  was  the  Help  Yourself  Buffet. 
Its  habitues,  mostly  clerks  like  Croly,  pronounced 
"buffet"  to  rhyme  with  "rough  it,"  which  was  incorrect 
but  apt. 

The  place  was,  as  its  patrons  never  tired  of  remind- 
ing one  another  as  they  tried  with  practiced  eye  and 
hand  to  capture  the  largest  sandwiches,  a  conscience 


The  $25,000  Jaw  265 

beanery.     As  a  matter  of  fact,  one's  conscience  had  a 
string  tied  to  it  by  a  cynical  management. 

The  system  is  simple.  There  are  piles  of  food  every- 
where, with  prominent  price  tags.  The  hungry  patron 
seizes  and  devours  what  he  wishes.  He  then  passes 
down  a  runway  and  reports,  to  the  best  of  his  mathe- 
matical and  ethical  ability,  the  amount  his  meal  has 
cost — usually,  for  reasons  unknown,  forty-five  cents. 
The  report  is  made  to  a  small  automaton  of  a  boy, 
with  a  blase  eye  and  a  brassy  voice.  He  hands  the 
patron  a  ticket  marked  45  and  at  the  same  instant 
screams  in  a  sirenic  and  incredulous  voice,  "Fawty-fi'." 
Then  the  patron  passes  on  down  the  alley  and  pays  the 
cashier  at  the  exit.  The  purpose  of  the  boy's  violent 
outcry  is  to  signal  the  spotter,  who  roves  among  the 
foods,  a  derby  hat  cocked  over  one  eye  and  an  untasted 
sandwich  in  his  hand,  so  that  persons  deficient  in  con- 
science may  not  basely  report  their  total  as  forty-five 
when  actually  they  have  eaten  ninety  cents'  worth. 

On  this  day,  when  Croly  Addicks  had  finished  his 
modest  lunch,  the  spotter  was  lurking  near  the  exit. 
Several  husky-looking  young  men  passed  him,  and 
brazenly  reported  totals  of  twenty  cents,  when  it  was 
obvious  that  persons  of  their  brawn  would  not  be  con- 
tent with  a  lunch  costing  less  than  seventy-five ;  but  the 
spotter  noting  their  bull  necks  and  bellicose  air  let  them 
pass.  But  when  Croly  approached  the  desk  and  re- 
ported forty-five  the  spotter  pounced  on  him.  Expe- 
rience had  taught  the  spotter  the  type  of  man  one  may 
pounce  on  without  fear  of  sharp  words  or  resentful 
blows. 

"Pahdun  me  a  minute,  frien',"  said  the  spotter. 
"Ain't  you  made  a  little  mistake  ?" 


266    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

"Me?"  quavered  Croly.  He  was  startled  and  he 
looked  guilty,  as  only  the  innocent  can  look. 

"Yes,  you,"  said  the  spotter,  scowling  at  the  weak 
outlines  of  Croly's  countenance. 

"No,"  jerked  out  Croly.  "Forty-five's  correct."  He 
tried  to  move  along  toward  the  cashier,  but  the  spotter's 
bulk  blocked  the  exit  alley. 

"Ain't  you  the  guy  I  seen  layin'  away  a  double  por- 
tion of  strawb'ry  shortcake  wit'  cream?"  asked  the 
spotter  sternly. 

Croly  hoped  that  it  was  not  apparent  that  his  upper 
lip  was  trembling;  his  hands  went  up  to  his  polka-dot 
tie  and  fidgeted  with  it.  He  had  paused  yearningly 
over  the  strawberry  shortcake;  but  he  had  decided  he 
couldn't  afford  it. 

"Didn't  have  shortcake,"  he  said  huskily. 

"Oh,  no!"  rejoined  the  spotter  sarcastically,  appeal- 
ing to  the  ring  of  interested  faces  that  had  now  crowded 
about.  "I  s'pose  that  white  stuff  on  your  upper  lip  ain't 
whipped  cream?" 

"It's  milk,"  mumbled  Croly.  "All  I  had  was  milk 
and  oatmeal  crackers  and  apple  pie.  Honest." 

The  spotter  snorted  dubiously. 

"Some  guy,"  he  declared  loudly,  "tucked  away  a 
double  order  of  strawb'ry  shortcake  and  a  hamboiger 
steak,  and  it  wasn't  me.  So  come  awn,  young  feller, 
you  owe  the  house  ninety  cents,  so  cut  out  the  argga- 
ment." 

"I — I "  began  Croly,  incoherently  rebellious; 

but  it  was  clear  that  the  crowd  believed  him  guilty  of 
the  conscienceless  swindle;  so  he  quailed  before  the 
spotter's  accusing  eye,  and  said,  "Oh,  well,  have  it  your 
own  way.  You  got  me  wrong,  but  I  guess  you  have  to 


The  $25,000  Jaw  267 

pick  on  little  fellows  to  keep  your  job."  He  handed 
over  ninety  cents  to  the  cashier. 

"You'll  never  see  my  face  in  this  dump  again,"  mut- 
tered Croly  savagely  over  his  shoulder. 

"That  won't  make  me  bust  out  cryin',  Chinless," 
called  the  spotter  derisively. 

Croly  stumbled  up  the  steps,  his  eyes  moist,  his  heart 
pumping  fast.  Chinless!  The  old  epithet.  The  old 
curse.  It  blistered  his  soul. 

Moodily  he  sought  out  a  bench  in  Madison  Square, 
hunched  himself  down  and  considered  his  case.  To- 
day, he  felt,  was  the  critical  day  of  his  life ;  it  was  his 
thirtieth  birthday. 

His  mind  flashed  back,  as  you've  seen  it  done  in  the 
movies,  to  a  scene  the  night  before,  in  which  he  had 
had  a  leading  role. 

"Emily,"  he  had  said  to  the  loveliest  girl  in  the 
world,  "will  you  marry  me  ?" 

Plainly  Emily  Mackie  had  expected  something  of 
the  sort,  and  after  the  fashion  of  the  modern  business 
girl  had  given  the  question  calm  and  clear-visioned 
consideration. 

"Croly,"  she  said  softly,  "I  like  you.  You  are  a  true 
friend.  You  are  kind  and  honest  and  you  work  hard. 
But  oh,  Croly  dear,  we  couldn't  live  on  twenty-two 
dollars  and  fifty  cents  a  week;  now  could  we?" 

That  was  Croly's  present  salary  after  eleven  years 
with  the  Pierian  Piano  Company,  and  he  had  to  admit 
that  Emily  was  right;  they  could  not  live  on  it. 

"But,  dearest  Emily,"  he  argued,  "to-morrow  they 
appoint  a  new  assistant  purchasing  agent,  and  I'm  in 
line  for  the  job.  It  pays  fifty  a  week." 

"But  are  you  sure  you'll  get  it?" 

His  face  fell. 


268    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

"N-no,"  he  admitted,  "but  I  deserve  it.  I  know  the 
job  about  ten  times  better  than  any  of  the  others,  and 
I've  been  there  longest." 

"You  thought  they'd  promote  you  last  year,  you 
know,"  she  reminded  him. 

"And  so  they  should  have,"  he  replied,  flushing.  "If 
it  hadn't  been  for  old  Grizzly  Cowdin!  He  thinks  I 
couldn't  make  good  because  I  haven't  one  of  those  un- 
derslung  jaws  like  his." 

"He's  a  brute!"  cried  Emily.  "You  know  more 
about  the  piano  business  than  he  does." 

"I  think  I  do,"  said  Croly,  "but  he  doesn't.  And 
he's  the  boss." 

"Oh,  Croly,  if  you'd  only  assert  yourself " 

"I  guess  I  never  learned  how,"  said  Croly  sadly. 

As  he  sat  there  on  the  park  bench,  plagued  by  the 
demon  of  introspection,  he  had  to  admit  that  he  was 
not  the  pugnacious  type,  the  go-getter  sort  that  Cowdin 
spoke  of  often  and  admiringly.  He  knew  his  job;  he 
could  say  that  of  himself  in  all  fairness,  for  he  had 
spent  many  a  night  studying  it ;  some  day,  he  told  him- 
self, they'd  be  surprised,  the  big  chiefs  and  all  of  them, 
to  find  out  how  much  he  did  know  about  the  piano 
business.  But  would  they  ever  find  out  ? 

Nobody,  reflected  Croly,  ever  listened  when  he  talked. 
There  was  nothing  about  him  that  carried  conviction. 
It  had  always  been  like  that  since  his  very  first  day  in 
school  when  the  boys  had  jeeringly  noted  his  rather 
marked  resemblance  to  a  haddock,  and  had  called  out, 
"Chinless,  Chinless,  stop  tryin'  to  swallow  your  face." 

Around  his  chinlessness  his  character  had  developed ; 
no  one  had  ever  taken  him  seriously,  so  quite  naturally 
he  found  it  hard  to  take  himself  seriously.  It  was  in- 


The  $25,000  Jaw  269 

evitable  that  his  character  should  become  as  chinless 
as  his  face. 

His  apprenticeship  under  the  thumb  and  chin  of  the 
domineering  Cowdin  had  not  tended  to  decrease  his 
youthful  timidity.  Cowdin,  with  a  jut  of  jaw  like  a 
paving  block,  had  bullied  Croly  for  years.  More  than 
once  Croly  had  yearned  burningly  to  plant  his  fist 
squarely  on  that  blue-black  prong  of  chin,  and  he  had 
even  practiced  up  on  a  secondhand  punching  bag  with 
this  end  in  view.  But  always  he  weakened  at  the 
crucial  instant.  He  let  his  resentment  escape  through 
the  safety  valve  of  intense  application  to  the  business 
of  his  firm.  It  comforted  him  somewhat  to  think  that 
even  the  big-jawed  president,  Mr.  Flagstead,  probably 
didn't  have  a  better  grasp  of  the  business  as  a  whole 
than  he,  chinless  Croly  Addicks,  assistant  to  the  assist- 
ant purchasing  agent.  But — and  he  groaned  aloud  at 
the  thought — his  light  was  hidden  under  a  bushel  of 
chinlessness. 

Someone  had  left  a  crumpled  morning  edition  of  an 
evening  paper  on  the  bench,  and  Croly  glanced  idly  at 
it.  From  out  the  pages  stared  the  determined  incisive 
features  of  a  young  man  very  liberally  endowed  with 
jaw.  Enviously  Croly  read  the  caption  beneath  the 
picture,  "The  fighting  face  of  Kid  McNulty,  the  Chel- 
sea Bearcat,  who  boxes  Leonard."  With  a  sigh  Croly 
tossed  the  paper  away. 

He  glanced  up  at  the  Metropolitan  Tower  clock  and 
decided  that  he  had  just  time  enough  for  a  cooling 
beaker  of  soda.  He  reached  the  soda  fountain  just 
ahead  of  three  other  thirsty  men.  By  every  right  he 
should  have  been  served  first.  But  the  clerk,  a  lofty 
youth  with  the  air  of  a  grand  duke,  after  one  swift  ap- 
praising glance  at  the  place  where  Croly's  chin  should 


270    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

have  been,  disregarded  the  murmured  "Pineapple 
phosphate,  please,"  and  turned  to  serve  the  others. 
Of  them  he  inquired  solicitously  enough,  "What's 
yourn?"  But  when  he  came  to  Croly  he  shot  him 
an  impatient  look  and  asked  sharply,  "Well,  speak  up, 
can't  yuh?"  The  cool  drink  turned  to  galling  acid  as 
Croly  drank  it. 

He  sprinted  for  his  office,  trying  to  cling  to  a  glim- 
mering hope  that  Cowdin,  despite  his  waspishness  of 
the  morning,  had  given  him  the  promotion.  He  reached 
his  desk  a  minute  late. 

Cowdin  prowled  past  and  remarked  with  a  cutting 
geniality,  harder  to  bear  than  a  curse,  "Well,  Mr. 
Addicks,  you  dallied  too  long  over  your  lobster  and 
quail,  didn't  you?" 

Under  his  desk  Croly's  fists  knotted  tightly.  He 
made  no  reply.  To-morrow,  probably,  he'd  have  an 
office  of  his  own,  and  be  almost  free  from  Cowdin's  ill- 
natured  raillery.  At  this  thought  he  bent  almost  cheer- 
fully over  his  stack  of  work. 

A  girl  rustled  by  and  thumb-tacked  a  small  notice  on 
the  bulletin  board.  Croly's  heart  ascended  to  a  point 
immediately  below  his  Adam's  apple  and  stuck  there, 
for  the  girl  was  Cowdin's  secretary,  and  Croly  knew 
what  announcement  that  notice  contained.  He  knew 
it  was  against  the  Spartan  code  of  office  etiquette  to 
consult  the  board  during  working  hours,  but  he  thought 
of  Emily,  and  what  the  announcement  meant  to  him, 
and  he  rose  and  with  quick  steps  crossed  the  room  and 
read  the  notice. 

Ellis  G.  Baldwin  has  this  day  been  promoted  to 
assistant  purchasing  agent. 

(Signed)     SAMUEL  COWDIN     C.  P.  A. 


The  $25,000  Jaw  271 

Croly  Addicks  had  to  steady  himself  against  the 
board;  the  black  letters  on  the  white  card  jigged  before 
his  eyes;  his  stomach  felt  cold  and  empty.  Baldwin 
promoted  over  his  head!  Blatant  Baldwin,  who  was 
never  sure  of  his  facts,  but  was  always  sure  of  him- 
self. Cocksure  incompetent  Baldwin!  But — but — he 
had  a  bulldog  jaw. 

Croly  Addicks,  feeling  old  and  broken,  turned  around 
slowly,  to  find  Cowdin  standing  behind  him,  a  wry 
smile  on  his  lips,  his  pin-point  eyes  fastened  on  Croly's 
stricken  face. 

"Well,  Mr.  Addicks,"  purred  the  chief  purchasing 
agent,  "are  you  thinking  of  going  out  for  a  spin  in  your 
limousine  or  do  you  intend  to  favor  us  with  a  little 
work  to-day?"  He  tilted  his  jaw  toward  Croly. 

"I — I  thought  I  was  to  get  that  job,"  began  Croly 
Addicks,  fingering  his  necktie. 

Cowdin  produced  a  rasping  sound  by  rubbing  his 
chin  with  his  finger. 

"Oh,  did  you,  indeed  ?"  he  asked.  "And  what  made 
you  think  that,  Mr.  Addicks?" 

"I've  been  here  longest,"  faltered  Croly,  "and  I  want 
to  get  married,  and  I  know  the  job  best,  and  I've  been 
doing  the  work  ever  since  Sebring  quit,  Mr.  Cowdin." 

For  a  long  time  Cowdin  did  not  reply,  but  stood 
rubbing  his  chin  and  smiling  pityingly  at  Croly 
Addicks,  until  Croly,  his  nerves  tense,  wanted  to 
scream.  Then  Cowdin  measuring  his  words  spoke  loud 
enough  for  the  others  in  the  room  to  hear. 

"Mr.  Addicks,"  he  said,  "that  job  needs  a  man  with 
a  punch.  And  you  haven't  a  punch,  Mr.  Addicks.  Mr. 
Addicks,  that  job  requires  a  fighter.  And  you're  not  a 
fighter,  Mr.  Addicks.  Mr.  Addicks,  that  job  requires 
a  man  with  a  jaw  on  him.  And  you  haven't  any  jaw 


272    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

on  you,  Mr.  Addicks.  Get  me?"  He  thrust  out  his 
own  peninsula  of  chin. 

It  was  then  that  Croly  Addicks  erupted  like  a  long 
suppressed  volcano.  All  the  hate  of  eleven  bullied 
years  was  concentrated  in  hisi  knotted  hand  as  hie 
swung  it  swishingly  from  his  hip  and  landed  it  flush 
on  the  outpointing  chin. 

An  ox  might  have  withstood  that  punch,  but  Cowdin 
was  no  ox.  He  rolled  among  the  waste-p&per  baskets. 
Snorting  furiously  he  scrambled  to  his  feet  and  made 
a  bull-like  rush  at  Croly.  Trembling  in  every  nerve 
Croly  Addicks  swung  at  the  blue-black  mark  again,  and 
Cowdin  reeled  against  a  desk.  As  he  fell  his  thick 
fingers  closed  on  a  cast-iron  paperweight  that  lay  on 
the  desk. 

Croly  Addicks  had  a  blurred  split-second  vision  of 
something  black  shooting  straight  at  his  face;  then  he 
felt  a  sharp  brain-jarring  shock;  then  utter  darkness. 

When  the  light  came  back  to  him  again  it  was  in 
Bellevue  Hospital.  His  face  felt  queer,  numb  and 
enormous;  he  raised  his  hand  feebly  to  it;  it  appeared 
to  be  covered  with  concrete  bandages. 

"Don't  touch  it,"  cautioned  the  nurse.  "It's  in  a 
cast,  and  is  setting." 

It  took  long  weeks  for  it  to  set;  they  were  black 
weeks  for  Croly,  brightened  only  by  a  visit  or  two 
from  Emily  Mackie.  At  last  the  nurse  removed  the 
final  bandage  and  he  was  discharged  from  the  hospital. 

Outside  the  hospital  gate  Croly  paused  in  the  sun- 
light. Not  many  blocks  away  he  saw  the  shimmer  of 
the  East  River,  and  he  faced  toward  it.  He  could  bury 
his  catastrophe  there,  and  forget  his  smashed-up  life, 
his  lost  job  and  his  shattered  chances  of  ever  marrying. 


The  $25,000  Jaw  273 

Who  would  have  him  now  ?  At  best  it  meant  the  long 
weary  climb  up  from  the  very  bottom,  and  he  was  past 
thirty.  He  took  a  half  step  in  the  direction  of  the 
river.  He  stopped ;  he  felt  a  hand  plucking  timidly  at 
his  coat  sleeve. 

The  person  who  plucked  at  his  sleeve  was  a  limp 
youth  with  a  limp  cigarette  and  vociferous  checked 
clothes  and  cap.  There  was  no  mistaking  the  awe  in 
his  tone  as  he  spoke. 

"Say,"  said  the  limp  youth,  "ain't  you  Kid  MoNulty, 
de  Chelsea  Bearcat  ?" 

He?  Croly  Addicks?  Taken  for  Kid  McNulty,  the 
prize  fighter  ?  A  wave  of  pleasure  swept  over  the  de- 
spondent Croly.  Life  seemed  suddenly  worth  living. 
He  had  been  mistaken  for  a  prize  fighter ! 

He  hardened  his  voice. 

"That's  me,"  he  said. 

"Gee,"  said  the  limp  youth,  "I  seen  yuh  box  Leonard. 
Gee,  that  was  a  battle!  Say,  next  time  yuh  meet  him 
you'll  knock  him  for  a  row  of  circus  tents,  won't  yuh  ?" 

"I'll  knock  him  for  a  row  of  aquariums,"  promised 
Croly.  And  he  jauntily  faced  about  and  strolled  away 
from  the  river  and  toward  Madison  Square,  followed 
by  the  admiring  glances  of  the  limp  youth. 

He  felt  the  need  of  refreshment  and  poished  into  a 
familiar  soda  shop.  The  same  lofty  grand  duke  was 
on  duty  behind  the  marble  counter,  and  was  taking  ad- 
vantage of  a  lull  by  imparting  a  high  polish  to  his  finger 
nails,  and  consequently  he  did  not  observe  the  unob- 
trusive entrance  of  Croly  Addicks. 

Croly  tapped  timidly  with  his  dime  on  the  counter; 
the  grand  duke  looked  up. 

"Pineapple  phosphate,  please,"  said  Croly  in  a  voice 
still  weak  from  his  hospital  days. 


274    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

The  grand  duke  shot  from  his  reclining  position  as 
if  attached  to  a  spring. 

"Yessir,  yessir,  right  away,"  he  smiled,  and  hustled 
about  his  task. 

Shortly  he  placed  the  beverage  before  the  surprised 
Croly. 

"Is  it  all  right  ?  Want  a  little  more  sirup  ?"  inquired 
the  grand  duke  anxiously. 

Croly,  almost  bewildered  by  this  change  of  demeanor, 
raised  the  glass  to  his  lips.  As  he  did  so  he  saw  the 
reflection  of  a  face  in  the  glistening  mirror  opposite. 
He  winced,  and  set  down  the  glass,  untasted. 

He  stared,  fascinated,  overwhelmed;  it  must  surely 
be  his  face,  since  his  body  was  attached  to  it,  but  how 
could  it  be  ?  The  eyes  were  the  mild  blue  eyes  of  Croly 
Addicks,  but  the  face  was  the  face  of  a  stranger — and  a 
startling-looking  stranger,  at  that! 

Croly  knew  of  course  that  it  had  been  necessary  to 
rebuild  his  face,  shattered  by  the  missile  hurled  by 
Cowdin,  but  in  the  hospital  they  had  kept  mirrors  from 
him,  and  he  had  discovered,  but  only  by  sense  of  touch, 
that  his  countenance  had  been  considerably  altered. 
But  he  had  never  dreamed  that  the  transformation 
would  be  so  radical. 

In  the  clear  light  he  contemplated  himself,  and  un- 
derstood why  he  had  been  mistaken  for  the  Chelsea 
Bearcat.  Kid  MoNulty  had  a  large  amount  of  jaw,  but 
he  never  had  a  jaw  like  the  stranger  with  Croly  Ad- 
dicks'  eyes  who  stared  back,  horrified,  at  Croly  from 
the  soda-fountain  mirror.  The  plastic  surgeons  had 
done  their  work  well ;  there  was  scarcely  any  scar.  But 
they  had  built  from  Croly's  crushed  bones  a  chin  that 
protruded  like  the  prow  of  a  battleship. 

The   mariners    of   mythology   whom   the    sorceress 


The  $25,000  Jaw  275 

changed  into  pigs  could  hardly  have  been  more  per- 
plexed and  alarmed  than  Croly  Addicks.  He  had,  in 
his  thirty  years,  grown  accustomed  to  his  meek  apolo- 
getic face.  The  face  that  looked  back  at  him  was  not 
meek  or  apologetic.  It  was  distinctly  a  hard  face;  it 
was  a  determined,  forbidding  face;  it  was  almost 
sinister. 

Croly  had  the  uncanny  sensation  of  having  had  his 
soul  slipped  into  the  body  of  another  man,  an  utter 
stranger.  Inside  he  was  the  same  timorous  young  as- 
sistant to  the  assistant  purchasing  agent — out  of  work; 
outside  he  was  a  fearsome  being,  a  dangerous-looking 
man,  who  made  autocratic  soda  dispensers  jump. 

To  him  came  a  sinking,  lost  feeling;  a  cold  empti- 
ness; the  feeling  of  a  gentle  Doctor  Jekyll  who  wakes 
to  find  himself  in  the  shell  of  a  fierce  Mr.  Hyde.  For 
a  second  or  two  Croly  Addicks  regretted  that  he  had 
not  gone  on  to  the  river. 

The  voice  of  the  soda  clerk  brought  him  back  to  the 
world. 

"If  your  drink  isn't  the  way  you  like  it,  sir,"  said 
the  grand  duke  amiably,  "just  say  the  word  and  I'll 
mix  you  up  another." 

Croly  started  up. 

"  'Sail  right,"  he  murmured,  and  fumbled  his  way 
out  to  Madison  Square. 

He  decided  to  live  a  while  longer,  face  and  all.  It 
was  something  to  be  deferred  to  by  scda  clerks. 

He  sank  down  on  a  bench  and  considered  what  he 
should  do.  At  the  twitter  of  familiar  voices  he  looked 
up  and  saw  the  blond  stenographer  and  the  brunette 
stenographer  from  his  former  company  passing  on  the 
way  to  lunch. 


276    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

He  rose,  advanced  a  step  toward  them,  tipped  his 
hat  and  said,  "Hello." 

The  blond  stenographer  drew  herself  up  regally,  as 
she  had  seen  some  one  do  in  the  movies,  and  chilled 
Croly  with  an  icy  stare. 

"Don't  get  so  fresh !"  she  said  coldly.  "To  whom  do 
you  think  you're  speaking  to  ?" 

"You  gotta  crust,"  observed  the  brunette,  outdoing 
her  companion  in  crushing  hauteur.  "Just  take  your- 
self and  your  baby  scarer  away,  Mister  Masher,  and 
get  yourself  a  job  posing  for  animal  crackers." 

They  swept  on  as  majestically  as  tight  skirts  and 
French  heels  would  permit,  and  Croly,  confused,  sub- 
sided back  on  his  bench  again.  Into  his  brain,  buzzing 
now  from  the  impact  of  so  many  new  sensations,  came 
a  still  stronger  impression  that  he  was  not  Croly  Ad- 
dicks  at  all,  but  an  entirely  different  and  fresh-born 
being,  unrecognized  by  his  old  associates.  He  pon- 
dered on  the  trick  fate  had  played  on  him  until  hunger 
beckoned  him  to  the  Help  Yourself  Buffet.  He  was 
inside  before  he  realized  what  he  was  doing,  and  before 
he  recalled  his  vow  never  to  enter  there  again.  The 
same  spotter  was  moving  in  and  out  among  the  patrons, 
the  same  derby  cocked  over  one  eye,  and  an  untasted 
sandwich,  doubtless  the  same  one,  in  his  hand.  He 
paid  no  special  heed  to  the  renovated  Croly  Addicks. 

Croly  was  hungry  and  under  the  spotter's  very  nose 
he  helped  himself  to  hamburger  steak  and  a  double 
order  of  strawberry  shortcake  with  thick  cream.  Satis- 
fied, he  started  toward  the  blase  check  boy  with  the 
brassy  voice;  as  he  went  his  hand  felt  casually  in  his 
change  pocket,  and  he  stopped  short,  gripped  by  horror. 
The  coins  he  counted  there  amounted  to  exactly  forty- 
five  cents  and  his  meal  totaled  a  dollar  at  least.  Fur- 


The  $25,000  Jaw  277 

thermore,  that  was  his  last  cent  in  the  world.  He  cast 
a  quick  frightened  glance  around  him.  The  spotter  was 
lounging  against  the  check  desk,  and  his  beady  eye 
seemed  focused  on  Croly  Addicks.  Croly  knew  that  his 
only  chance  lay  in  bluffing;  he  drew  in  a  deep  breath, 
thrust  forward  his  new  chin,  and  said  to  the  boy, 
"Forty-five."  "Fawty-fi',"  screamed  the  boy.  The 
spotter  pricked  up  his  ears. 

"Pahdun  me  a  minute,  frien',"  said  the  spotter. 
"Ain't  you  made  a  little  mistake  ?" 

Summoning  every  ounce  of  nerve  he  could  Croly 
looked  straight  back  into  the  spotter's  eyes. 

"No,"  said  Croly  loudly. 

For  the  briefest  part  of  a  second  the  spotter  wavered 
between  duty  and  discretion.  Then  the  beady  eyes 
dropped  and  he  murmured,  "Oh,  I  beg  pahdun.  I 
thought  you  was  the  guy  that  just  got  outside  of  a 
raft  of  strawb'ry  shortcake  and  hamboiger.  Guess  I 
made  a  little  mistake  myself." 

With  the  brisk  firm  step  of  a  conqueror  Croly  Ad- 
dicks strode  into  the  air,  away  from  the  scene  he  had 
once  left  so  humiliated. 

Again,  for  many  reflective  minutes  he  occupied  one 
of  those  chairs  of  philosophy,  a  park  bench,  and  re- 
volved in  his  mind  the  problem,  "Where  do  I  go  from 
here?"  The  vacuum  in  his  pockets  warned  him  that 
his  need  of  a  job  was  imperative.  Suddenly  he  re- 
leased his  thoughtful  clutch  on  his  new  jaw,  and  his 
eyes  brightened  and  his  spine  straightened  with  a 
startling  idea  that  at  once  fascinated  and  frightened 
him.  He  would  try  to  get  his  old  job  back  again. 

Inside  him  the  old  shrinking  Croly  fought  it  out 
with  the  new  Croly. 


2jS    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

"Don't  be  foolish!"  bleated  the  old  Croly.  "You 
Haven't  the  nerve  to  face  Cowdin  again." 

"Buck  up !"  argued  back  the  new  Croly.  "You  made 
that  soda  clerk  hop,  and  that  spotter  quail.  The  worst 
Cowdin  can  say  is  'No !' ' 

"You  haven't  a  chance  in  the  piano  company,  any- 
how," demurred  the  old  Croly.  "They  know  you  too 
well ;  your  old  reputation  is  against  you.  The  spineless 
jellyfish  class  at  twenty-two-fifty  per  is  your  limit 
there." 

"Nonsense,"  declared  the  new  Croly  masterfully. 
"It's  the  one  job  you  know.  Ten  to  one  they  need  you 
this  minute.  You've  invested  eleven  years  of  training 
in  it.  Make  that  experience  count." 

"But — but  Cowdin  may  take  a  wallop  at  me,"  pro- 
tested the  old  Croly. 

"Not  while  ^you  have  a  face  like  Kid  McNulty,  the 
Chelsea  Bearcat,"  flashed  back  the  new  Croly.  The 
new  Croly  won. 

Ten  minutes  later  Samuel  Cowdin  swiveled  round 
in  his  chair  to  face  a  young  man  with  a  pale,  grim  face 
and  an  oversized  jaw. 

"Well  ?"  demanded  Cowdin. 

"Mr.  Cowdin,"  said  Croly  Addicks,  holding  his 
tremors  in  check  by  a  great  effort  of  will,  "I  under- 
stand you  need  a  man  in  the  purchasing  department. 
I  want  the  job." 

Cowdin  shot  him  a  puzzled  look.  The  chief  pur- 
chasing agent's  countenance  wore  the  expression  of  one 
who  says  "Where  have  I  seen  that  face  before  ?" 

"We  do  need  a  man,"  Cowdin  admitted,  staring  hard 
at  Croly,  "though  I  don't  know  how  you  knew  it.  Who 
are  you  ?" 


The  $25,000  Jaw  279 

"I'm  Addicts,"  said  Croly,  thrusting  out  his  new 
chin. 

Cowdin  started.  His  brow  wrinkled  in  perplexity; 
he  stared  even  more  intently  at  the  firm-visaged 
man,  and  then  shook  his  head  as  if  giving  up  a  prob- 
lem. 

"That's  odd,"  he  muttered,  reminiscently  stroking 
his  chin.  "There  was  a  young  fellow  by  that  name 
here.  Croly  was  his  first  name.  You're  not  related 
to  him,  I  suppose?" 

Croly,  the  unrecognized,  straightened  up  in  his  chair 
as  if  he  had  sat  on  a  hornet.  With  difficulty  he  gained 
control  over  his  breathing,  and  managed  to  growl,  "Isfo, 
I'm  not  related  to  him." 

Cowdin  obviously  was  relieved. 

"Didn't  think  you  were,"  he  remarked,  almost  amia- 
bly. "You're  not  the  same  type  of  man  at  all." 

"Do  I  get  that  job?"  asked  Croly.  In  his  own  ears 
his  voice  sounded  hard. 

"What  experience  have  you  had?"  questioned 
Cowdin  briskly. 

"Eleven  years,"  replied  Croly. 

"With  what  company  ?" 

"With  this  company,"  answered  Croly  evenly. 

"With  this  company?"  Cowdin's  voice  jumped  a 
full  octave  higher  to  an  incredulous  treble. 

"Yes,"  said  Croly.  "You  asked  me  if  I  was  related 
to  Croly  Addicks.  I  said  'No.'  That's  true.  I'm  not 
related  to  him — because  I  am  Croly  Addicks." 

With  a  gasp  of  alarm  Cowdin  jumped  to  his  feet  and 
prepared  to  defend  himself  from  instant  onslaught. 

"The  devil  you  are !"  he  cried. 

"Sit  down,  please,"  said  Croly,  quietly. 

'Cowdin  in  a  daze  sank  back  into  his  chair  and  sat 


280    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

staring,  hypnotized,  at  the  man  opposite  him  as  one 
might  stare  who  found  a  young  pink  elephant  in 
his  bed. 

"I'll  forget  what  happened  if  you  will,"  said  Croly. 
"Let's  talk  about  the  future.  Do  I  get  the  job?" 

"Eh?  What's  that?"  Cowdin  began  to  realize  that 
he  was  not  dreaming. 

"Do  I  get  the  job?"  Croly  repeated. 

A  measure  of  his  accustomed  self-possession  had  re- 
turned to  the  chief  purchasing  agent  and  he  answered 
with  as  much  of  his  old  manner  as  he  could  muster, 
"I'll  give  you  another  chance  if  you  think  you  can  be- 
have yourself." 

"Thanks,"  said  Croly,  and  inside  his  new  self  snig- 
gered at  his  old  self. 

The  chief  purchasing  agent  was  master  of  himself 
by  now,  and  he  rapped  out  in  the  voice  that  Croly  knew 
only  too  well,  "Get  right  to  work.  Same  desk.  Same 
salary.  And  remember,  no  more  monkey  business,  Mr. 
Addicks,  because  if " 

He  stopped  short.  There  was  something  in  the  face 
of  Croly  Addicks  that  told  him  to  stopi.  The  big  new 
jaw  was  pointing  straight  at  him  as  if  it  were  a  pistol. 

"You  said,  just  now,"  said  Croly,  and  his  voice  was 
hoarse,  "that  I  wasn't  the  same  type  of  man  as  the 
Croly  Addicks  who  worked  here  before.  I'm  not.  I'm 
no  longer  the  sort  of  man  it's  safe  to  ride.  Please  don't 
call  me  Mister  unless  you  mean  it." 

Cowdin's  eyes  strayed  from  the  snapping  eyes  of 
Croly  Addicks  to  the  taut  jaw;  he  shrugged  his 
shoulders. 

"Report  to  Baldwin,"  was  all  he  said. 

As  Croly  turned  away,  his  back  hid  from  Cowdin 
the  smile  that  had  come  to  his  new  face. 


The  $25,000  Jaw  281 

The  reincarnated  Croly  had  been  back  at  his  old  job 
for  ten  days,  or,  more  accurately,  ten  days  and  nights, 
for  it  had  taken  that  long  to  straighten  out  the  snarl  in 
which  Baldwin,  not  quite  so  sure  of  himself  now,  had 
been  immersed  to  the  eyebrows.  Baldwin  was  watch- 
ing, a  species  of  awe  in  his  eye,  while  Croly  swiftly 
and  expertly  checked  off  a  complicated  price  list.  Croly 
looked  up. 

"Baldwin,"  he  said,  laying  down  the  work,  "I'm 
going  to  make  a  suggestion  to  you.  It's  for  your  own 
good." 

"Shoot !"  said  the  assistant  purchasing  agent  warily. 

"You're  not  cut  out  for  this  game,"  said  Croly 
Addicks. 

"Wha-a-at  ?"  sputtered  Baldwin. 

Croly  leveled  his  chin  at  him.  Baldwin  listened  as 
the  new  Addicks  continued:  "You're  not  the  buying 
type,  Baldwin.  You're  the  selling  type.  Take  my  ad- 
vice and  get  transferred  to  the  selling  end.  You'll  be 
happier — and  you'll  get  farther." 

"Say,"  began  Baldwin  truculently,  "you've  got  a 
nerve.  I've  a  good  notion  to " 

Abruptly  he  stopped.  Croly's  chin  was  set  at  an 
ominous  angle. 

"Better  think  it  over,"  said  Croly  Addicks,  taking 
up  the  price  list  again. 

Baldwin  gazed  for  a  full  minute  or  more  at  the 
remade  jaw  of  his  assistant.  Then  he  conceded,  "'May- 
be I  will." 

A  week  later  Baldwin  announced  that  he  had  taken 
Croly's  advice.  The  old  Addicks  would  have  waited, 
with  anxious  nerves  on  edge,  for  the  announcement  of 
Baldwin's  successor;  the  new  Addicks  went  straight  to 
the  chief  purchasing  agent. 


282    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

"Mr.  Cowdin,"  said  Croly,  as  calmly  as  a  bumping 
heart  would  permit,  "shall  I  take  over  Baldwin's  work  1" 

The  chief  purchasing  agent  crinkled  his  brow 
petulantly. 

"I  had  Heaton  in  mind  for  the  job,"  he  said  shortly 
without  looking  up. 

"I  want  it,"  said  Croly  Addicks,  and  his  jaw 
snapped.  His  tone  made  Cowdin  look  up.  "Heaton, 
isn't  ripe  for  the  work,"  said  Croly.  "I  am." 

Cowdin  could  not  see  that  inside  Croly  was  quiver- 
ing ;  he  could  not  see  that  the  new  Croly  was  struggling 
with  the  old  and  was  exerting  every  ounce  of  will  power 
he  possessed  to  wring  out  the  words.  All  Cowdin  could 
see  was  the  big  jaw,  bulging  and  threatening. 

He  cautiously  poked  back  his  office  chair  so  that  it 
rolled  on  its  casters  out  of  range  of  the  man  with  the 
dangerous  face. 

"I  told  you  once  before,  Addicks,"  began  the  chief 
purchasing  agent 

"You  told  me  once  before,"  interrupted  Croly  Ad- 
dicks sternly,  "that  the  job  required  a  man  with  a  jaw. 
What  do  you  call  this  ?" 

He  tapped  his  own  remodeled  prow.  Cowdin  found 
it  impossible  not  to  rest  his  gaze  on  the  spot  indicated 
by  Croly's  forefinger.  Unconsciously,  perhaps,  his 
beads  of  eyes  roved  over  his  desk  in  search  of  a  con- 
venient paperweight  or  other  weapon.  Finding  none 
the  chief  purchasing  agent  affected  to  consider  the 
merits  of  Croly's  demand. 

"Well,"  he  said  with  a  judicial  air,  "I've  a  notion 
to  give  you  a  month's  trial  at  the  job." 

"Good,"  said  Croly ;  and  inside  he  buzzed  and  tingled 
warmly. 


The  $25,000  Jaw  283 

Cowdin  wheeled  his  office  chair  back  within  range 
again. 

A  month  after  Croly  Addicks  had  taken  up  his  duties 
as  assistant  purchasing  agent  he  was  sitting  late  one 
afternoon  in  serious  conference  with  the  chief  purchas- 
ing agent.  The  day  was  an  anxious  one  for  all  the 
employes  of  the  great  piano  company.  It  was  the  day 
when  the  directors  met  in  solemn  and  awful  conclave, 
and  the  ancient  and  acidulous  chairman  of  the  board, 
Cephas  Langdon,  who  owned  most  of  the  stock,  emerged, 
woodchucklike,  from  his  hole,  to  conduct  his  annual 
much-dreaded  inquisition  into  the  corporation's  affairs, 
and  to  demand,  with  many  searching  queries,  why  in 
blue  thunder  the  company  was  not  making  more  money. 
On  this  day  dignified  and  confident  executives  wriggled 
and  wilted  like  tardy  schoolboys  under  his  grilling,  and 
official  heads  were  lopped  off  with  a  few  sharp  words. 

As  frightened  secretaries  slipped  in  and  out  of  the 
mahogany-doored  board  room  information  seeped  out, 
and  breaths  were  held  and  tiptoes  walked  on  as  the 
reports  flashed  about  from  office  to  office. 

"Old  Langdon's  on  a  rampage." 

"He's  raking  the  sales  manager  over  the  coals." 

"He's  fired  Sherman,  the  advertising  manager." 

"He's  fired  the  whole  advertising  department  too." 

"He's  asking  what  in  blue  thunder  is  the  matter  with 
the  purchasing  department." 

When  this  last  ringside  bulletin  reached  Cowdin  he 
scowled,  muttered,  and  reached  for  his  hat. 

"If  anybody  should  come  looking  for  me,"  he  said 
to  Croly,  "tell  'em  I  went  home  sick." 

"But,"  protested  Croly,  who  knew  well  the  habits  of 
the  exigent  chairman  of  the  board,  "Mr.  Langdon  may 


284    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettipon 

send  down  here  any  minute  for  an  explanation  of  the 
purchasing  department's  report." 

Cowdin  smiled  sardonically. 

"So  he  may,  so  he  may,"  he  said,  clapping  his  hat 
firmly  on  his  head.  "Perhaps  you'd  be  so  good  as  to 
tell  him  what  he  wants  to  know." 

And  still  smiling  the  chief  purchasing  agent  hurried 
to  the  freight  elevator  and  made  his  timely  and  prudent 
exit. 

"Gawsh,"  said  the  blond  stenographer,  "Grizzly 
Cowdin's  ducked  again  this  year." 

"Gee,"  said  the  brunette  stenographer,  "here's  where 
poor  Mr.  Addicks  gets  it  where  Nellie  wore  the  beads." 

Croly  knew  what  they  were  saying ;  he  knew  that  he 
had  been  left  to  be  a  scapegoat.  He  looked  around  for 
his  own  hat.  But  as  he  did  so  he  caught  the  reflection 
of  his  new  face  in  the  plate-glass  top  of  his  desk.  The 
image  of  his  big  impressive  jaw  heartened  him.  He 
smiled  grimly  and  waited. 

He  did  not  have  long  to  wait.  The  door  was  thrust 
open  and  President  Flagstead's  head  was  thrust  in. 

"Where's  Cowdin?"  he  demanded  nervously.  Tiny 
worried  pearls  of  dew  on  the  presidential  brow  bore 
evidence  that  even  he  had  not  escaped  the  grill. 

"Home,"  said  Croly.     "Sick." 

Mr.  Flagstead  frowned.  The  furrows  of  worry  in 
his  face  depened. 

"Mr.  Langdon  is  furious  at  the  purchasing  depart- 
ment," he  said.  "He  wants  some  things  in  the  report 
explained,  and  he  won't  wait.  Confound  Cowdin !" 

Croly's  eyes  rested  for  a  moment  on  the  reflection  of 
his  chin  in  the  glass  on  his  desk ;  then  he  raised  them 
to  the  president's. 

"Mr.  Cowdin  left  me  in  charge,"  he  said,  hoping 


The  $25,000  Jaw  285 

that  his  voice  wouldn't  break.  "I'll  see  if  I  can  answer 
Mr.  Langdon's  questions." 

The  president  fired  a  swift  look  at  Croly;  at  first  it 
was  dubious;  then,  as  it  appraised  Croly's  set  face,  it 
grew  relieved. 

"Who  are  you  ?"  asked  the  president. 

"Addicks,  assistant  purchasing  agent,"  said  Croly. 

"Oh,  the  new  man.  I've  noticed  you  around,"  said 
the  president.  "Meant  to  introduce  myself.  How  long 
have  you  been  here?" 

"Eleven  years,"  said  Croly. 

"Eleven  years?"  The  president  was  unbelieving. 
"You  couldn't  have  been.  I  certainly  would  have  no- 
ticed your  face."  He  paused  a  bit  awkwardly.  Just 
then  they  reached  the  mahogany  door  of  the  board  room. 

Croly  Addicks,  outwardly  a  picture  of  determina- 
tion, inwardly  quaking,  followed  the  president.  Old 
Cephas  Langdon  was  squatting  in  his  chair,  his  face 
red  from  his  efforts,  his  eyes,  beneath  their  tufts  of 
brow,  irate.  When  he  spoke,  his  words  exploded  in 
bunches  like  packs  of  firecrackers. 

"Well,  well  ?"  he  snapped.  "Where's  Cowdin  ?  Why 
didn't  Cowdin  come  ?  I  sent  for  Cowdin,  didn't  I  ?  I 
wanted  to  see  the  chief  purchasing  agent.  Where's 
Cowdin  anyhow  ?  Who  are  you  ?" 

"Cowdin's  sick.     I'm  Addicks,"  said  Croly. 

His  voice  trembled,  and  his  hands  went  up  to  play 
with  his  necktie.  They  came  in  contact  with  the  point 
of  his  new  chin,  and  fresh  courage  came  back  to  him. 
He  plunged  his  hands  into  his  coat  pockets,  pushed 
the  chin  forward. 

He  felt  the  eyes  under  the  bushy  brows  surveying 
his  chin. 

"Cowdin  sick,  eh  ?"  inquired  Cephas  Langdon  acidly. 


286    The  Sin  of  Monsieur  Pettlpon 

"Seems  to  me  he's  always  sick  when  I  want  to  find 
out  what  in  blue  thunder  ails  his  department."  He 
held  up  a  report.  "I  installed  a  purchasing  system  in 
1913,"  he  said,  slapping  the  report  angrily,  "and  look 
here  how  it  has  been  foozled."  He  slammed  the  report 
down  on  the  table.  "What  I  want  to  know,  young 
man,"  he  exploded,  "is  why  material  in  the  Syracuse 
factories  cost  29  per  cent  more  for  the  past  three 
months  than  for  the  same  period  last  year.  Why? 
Why?  Why?" 

He  glared  at  Croly  Addicks  as  if  he  held  him  per- 
sonally responsible.  Croly  did  not  drop  his  eyes  before 
the  glare;  instead  he  stuck  his  chin  out  another  notch. 
His  jaw  muscles  knotted.  His  breathing  was  difficult. 
The  chance  he'd  been  working  for,  praying  for,  had 
come. 

"Your  purchasing  system  is  all  wrong,  Mr.  Lang- 
don,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  so  loud  that  it  made  them  all 
jump. 

For  a  second  it  seemed  as  if  Cephas  Langdon  would 
uncoil  and  leap  at  the  presumptuous  underling  with 
the  big  chin.  But  he  didn't.  Instead,  with  a  smile 
in  which  there  was  a  lot  of  irony,  and  some  interest,  he 
asked,  "Oh,  indeed?  Perhaps,  young  man,  you'll  be 
so  good  as  to  tell  me  what's  wrong  with  it?  You  ap- 
pear to  think  you  know  a  thing  or  two." 

Croly  told  him.  Eleven  years  of  work  and  study 
were  behind  what  he  said,  and  he  emphasized  each 
point  with  a  thrust  of  his  jaw  that  would  have  carried 
conviction  even  had  his  analysis  of  the  system  been  less 
logical  and  concise  than  it  was.  Old  Cephas  Langdon 
leaning  on  the  directors'  table  turned  up  his  ear  trum- 
pet so  that  he  wouldn't  miss  a  word. 


The  $25,000  Jaw  287 

"Well?  Well?  And  what  would  you  suggest  in- 
stead of  the  old  way  ?"  he  interjected  frequently. 

Croly  had  the  answer  ready  every  time.  Darkness 
and  dinnertime  had  come  before  Croly  had  finished. 

"Flagstead,"  said  Old  Cephas  Langdon,  turning  to 
the  president,  "haven't  I  always  told  you  that  what  we 
needed  in  the  purchasing  department  was  a  man  with 
a  chin  on  him?  Just  drop  a  note  to  Cowdin  to-mor- 
row, will  you,  and  tell  him  he  needn't  come  back  ?" 

He  turned  toward  Croly  and  twisted  his  leathery 
old  face  into  what  passed  for  a  smile. 

"Young  man,"  he  said,  "don't  let  anything  happen 
to  that  jaw  of  yours.  One  of  these  bright  days  it's 
going  to  be  worth  twenty-five  thousand  dollars  a  year 
to  you." 

That  night  a  young  man  with  a  prodigious  jaw  sat 
very  near  a  young  woman  named  Emily  Mackie,  who 
from  time  to  time  looked  from  his  face  to  the  ring 
finger  of  her  left  hand. 

"Oh,  Croly  dear,"  she  said  softly,  "how  did  you 
doit?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  he  said.  "Guess  I  just  tried  to 
live  up  to  my  jaw." 


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